


The Tenant

by tumbleweedchaser



Series: The Secrets of John Watson [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Case Fic, Eventual Smut, Gen, M/M, New Tenant, Post-The Reichenbach Fall, Sexy Times, mention of mary morstan - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-23
Updated: 2014-07-09
Packaged: 2018-02-05 23:25:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 24,232
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1836019
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tumbleweedchaser/pseuds/tumbleweedchaser
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock attempts to spark a relationship with John while working to solve a kidnapping case.<br/>_____<br/>This is the second part of a series and does heavily reference occurrences in the first part, The Tontine. It is highly recommended you read that part first.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Problems

**Author's Note:**

> Motivated by requests to continue with the characters developed in The Tontine, I've chosen to continue their story. This one will be a bit more focused on relationship development, though it is also a case fic.
> 
> Hope you guys enjoy it!!

Sherlock Holmes had a problem. Actually, he had six problems.

First, while he had at first been amused by the notion of having his ACL replaced by one from a cadaver, the surgery was proving to be far less than amusing four weeks later.

Second, his reconstructive surgery had caused a great deal of pain and his idiot doctors and Mycroft _and_ John had all refused to give him pain killers that were worth anything.

Third, John insisted on his active participation in physical therapy, though this had improved significantly since the good doctor had _finally_ just had the therapist show him what needed to be done and taken over the process on his own.

Fourth, spending four weeks on the couch in a knee brace was horrendously boring. Though both Lestrade and Mycroft had brought by some interesting case files, they’d both made certain to keep anything which might motivate him to leave the flat far away from him. This was probably John’s doing.

Fifth, he was plagued by a 5’6” jumper clad man with tea and adrenaline addictions that insisted he ‘take care of himself’. In the past four weeks, John had asked, then persuaded, then coerced, then commanded that Sherlock see to it his transport receive proper care, which apparently involved a great deal of eating and physical therapy.

Sixth, four months ago Sherlock had realized that he actually knew very little about the 5’6” jumper clad man that shared his flat, despite his deductions. More importantly, in the past four weeks he’d realized that while he knew a little more than he had before the tontine case, there were still many secrets left to learn. Particularly, Sherlock wanted to know why his flat mate insisted on smiling at him the way he did, especially after acknowledging Sherlock’s interest in him, but did little else that might invite further shows of Sherlock’s interest.

What Sherlock wanted more than anything was to be out of the infernal brace on his knee and moving about the streets of London solving a worthwhile case so that he might try to ignore problem six. Unfortunately, Doctor Watson had made it perfectly clear that his knee would not fully recover for at least two more months, possibly three if he didn’t make a better effort in his recovery, and so he was stuck in the flat with his fascinatingly frustrating blogger.

Sherlock groaned with annoyance.

John, who was sitting in his armchair, reading the paper, ignored him. Again.

Sherlock made an attempt to roll over on the couch so that his back would be turned but the bloody brace on his left leg made that nearly impossible.

He heard John chuckle.

“It isn’t funny, John!”

“What? You struggling to get into your sulking position?”

“I don’t have a sulking position.”

“Yes you do.”

Sherlock huffed a deep breath, filling it with as much contempt as he could muster.

“If you’re bored you could do more stretches, it’ll help your leg feel less stiff.”

“You’ve already tortured me enough today.”

“Why not go down to Speedy’s for a cuppa? You need to be walking more anyway, help build up your strength.”

“Tedious.”

“What about the files Lestrade brought by yesterday?”

“Dull. Already texted him.”

John finally put the paper down, “Those were all cold cases, weren’t they?”

“Boring ones.”

John furrowed his brow at him, “I can’t believe I’m about to suggest this, but you could start up a new experiment.”

Sherlock sat up, “You’d be willing to run by the morgue for me?”

“Er, no,” John answered, “surely there is something you can research or experiment on that doesn’t involve human remains.”

Sherlock flopped back on the sofa, “Boring.”

John chuckled again, shaking his head slightly and smiling, but also returning to his paper. He was done entertaining the detective.

“John.”

He turned the page of the paper.

“John,” Sherlock said, more demanding this time.

John continued to ignore him.

“John!”

“What?” said the doctor, putting his paper down onto his lap.

“Bring me my phone.”

John sighed, “You’re going to be the death of me.” Nevertheless, the doctor did in fact go and fetch the phone from the table just two feet from Sherlock and threw it down on the detective’s chest. “You’re not on bed rest, you know.”

Sherlock gave him a fake smile, “Just keeping my leg elevated, doctor.”

John cocked an eyebrow at him, but before he could respond Mrs. Hudson was entering the flat with a polite knock on the door. “Hello, boys," she cooed, "Oh, Sherlock, don’t tell me your still not feeling better.”

“He’s fine, Mrs. Hudson,” John said before Sherlock could answer her, “Just dramatic.”

She smiled at them, “Well do try to get better quickly, you’ll go mad cooped up here.” Sherlock deduced she was mostly worried about her walls and the worktop in the kitchen.

“Of course I will Mrs. Hudson,” assured the detective.

Her smile broadened to one of approval, “John, dear, I was hoping you could do me a favor.”

“Of course,” John answered, “anything you need.”

“You haven’t even heard what the favor is, John,” said Sherlock, “What if she asks you to do something illegal?”

John shot him a glare, “What do you need?”

“I’m fixing some things upstairs, I was hoping you could run and get some supplies and maybe help with some of the repairs, Bea—“

“She texted me yesterday,” John cut in, “I’d be glad to help.”

Sherlock was sitting up again, “She who? Why do you need to repair the room upstairs?”

Mrs. Hudson and John exchanged a knowing look before the landlady answered, “There’s another tenant moving in.”

“Another what?” Sherlock demanded.

“It’s just temporary, only a few months. She stayed here while you were… away,” explained Mrs. Hudson.

“You rented out my room?”

John glared down at him, “No, she didn’t rent out your room, and you were dead anyway so what does it matter?”

“Oh, John,” said Mrs. Hudson, “no reason to be so harsh.”

John smiled at her, “I think sometimes he needs to hear his own language.”

“Well, Beatrice will be good for him then.”

Seven problems.

Sherlock Holmes had seven problems.

 

#

 

Mrs. Hudson and John had managed to escape Sherlock’s questions and inevitable sulk by slipping out of the flat to look over the needed repairs and create a list of things John would need to pick up. Thirty minutes later, the landlady brought up a tray of tea and biscuits for the detective. She set it down on the coffee table in front of Sherlock, “Do stop pouting Sherlock, Beatrice is a nice girl.”

“I don’t see why you need another tenant,” he complained, “If you need money just raise our rent.”

“It’s not about the money,” she said, taking a cup for herself.

“You said she lived here previously?” he asked, watching the landlady’s response carefully.

“She moved in for a short time, after John moved out.”

“John didn’t move out, he was still here when I returned.”

“He did in fact move out, for a short time, he came back of course,” replied Mrs. Hudson, “when that whirlwind of a marriage ended.”

Sherlock froze.

“Never understood that decision personally,” Mrs. Hudson carried on, “I suppose she was a nice enough girl.”

Sherlock didn’t respond.

“I couldn’t bring myself to rent out your flat, since I knew John would be back eventually and you’d paid the rent so far in advance, but Beatrice needed a space and was quite comfortable upstairs, and then John came back and they made fast friends,” she said with a smile, “Then her work sent her off, it’ll be nice to have her back for a time, even if it is just a few months. Sherlock? Are you alright?”

“Fine,” he lied.

“Well,” she said, setting down her tea, “I think I’ll just go do some more cleaning upstairs.” Cautiously, she stood and left the flat, leaving Sherlock still sitting on the couch.

_Married? John moved out and got married?_

It occurred to the detective that John was nearly forty years old. They’d met just under four years ago, and of those four years he’d been absent for two of them. John’s ten years in the army were still a bit of a mystery, he now knew more about John's military career but could still only account for five, perhaps six years of John’s military service, never mind the eight years John had spent earning his medical degree and license.

John had an unnerving way of avoiding Sherlock’s deductive eye so that the detective seemed to only pick up the superficial facts of John’s life. There’d been no ring, no tan line, no evidence of a move, no pictures, no mention of a wife, not only from John, but from anyone. It must have ended poorly. 

The doctor _had_ told him to start some new research.

Sherlock picked up his phone

Need John’s file. –SH

You’ve already seen his military file. –MH

Need your file on John Watson. –SH

There was a delay in his brother’s response, as if he was hesitant to respond.

Mary? –MH

Mary? –SH

His wife. –MH

Sherlock threw his phone and watched it shatter against the wall.

 

#

 

When John returned an hour later, Mrs. Hudson was quick to catch him on the stairs, “John,” she said somewhat urgently, “I think you need to talk to Sherlock.”

“What did he do now?” John asked, lugging several bags up the stairs.

“Actually, I think… well, I took him some tea and I may have mentioned your moving out while he was gone.”

John sighed, “Mentioned Mary?”

“I thought he knew,” she said apologetically, “but he seemed quite upset when—“

“Don’t worry about it,” John assured her, “It wasn’t secret or anything, just- it just never came up.” He set the bags down on the landing, “I’ll go talk to him.”

John entered through the door in the kitchen, when he rounded the corner into the sitting room it was to find Sherlock seated on the couch, fully dressed for the first time in ages, legs propped up on the coffee table and his hands tucked under his chin, palms together.

John stared at him for a moment, waiting for the detective to say something. When the detective didn’t so much as acknowledge John’s presence, he decided to start the conversation himself.

“Out with it.”

“Out with what?”

“Whatever you’re wanting to say.”

“I don’t know what you mean, it’s not like we've been keeping _more_ secrets from each other.”

John sighed, already exasperated, “It wasn’t a secret, it just wasn’t… it didn’t come up.”

Sherlock reacted to that, standing quickly, despite the brace, “It wasn’t important?”

“I didn’t say—“

“But you were about to,” said Sherlock, “You moved out and got married and didn’t bother to tell me?”

John crossed his arms and glared at Sherlock, but the detective didn’t back down, instead moving closer and looming over John.

“Did you just forget to mention it?” asked Sherlock.

John glared up at him and tightened his jaw, “You never asked.”

“Is that something I’m supposed to do?” spat back Sherlock, “Should I ask every time you leave the flat? How was the shopping? Did you get married while you were out?”

“And where were you?” John roared up at him, “It isn’t my fault you weren’t there! You were busy being not dead at the time!”

Sherlock took a step back. “John—“

“Then you waltzed back into my life as if you hadn’t been gone!” John was still screaming, despite the fact Sherlock had retreated yet another step, “You certainly didn’t tell me where you’d been, you never asked what happened to me when you were gone. You didn’t seem to think it important then, so why is it now?”

Sherlock tried again, “John—“

“No, Sherlock,” John said, voice lowered but still clipped with a military anger, pointing a finger at the detective, “You can ask about it, hell, you can be upset about it, but you don’t get to yell at me for not telling you when you chose to ignore that those two years happened. My life did not pause while you were off being not dead.”

Sherlock didn’t try to respond this time. John looked him over, standing there looking both guilty and hurt, a reflection of John’s own feelings. The captain turned away with a frustrated growl and left the flat, slamming the door so hard that the wall shook with the force of it.

Out on the landing, John pinched the bridge of his nose and tried to breath. The tremor in his hand seemed worse than normal.

“I take it that didn’t go well?” he heard Mrs. Hudson say. He looked up to see her looking down at him from the staircase.

“It… could have gone better.”


	2. Whirlwind

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've added an original character who will play something of a vital role to the story, but I assure you she's more friend than foe. I hope you all love Bea as much as I do.

Sherlock made a conscious effort to not be in the common areas of the flat when John returned later that night, though he could tell by the heavy and unsteady footfalls that John had gone to the pub to have several pints. When he knew John was settled in his room for the night, he made his way into the kitchen to set out a glass of water and a pain reliever. 

He was still awake when John woke the next morning and trudged down the steps. The doctor left early to get to work, Sherlock supposed he too was trying to give some needed space but Sherlock didn’t particularly want it.

The detective was pleased to see that John had taken the aspirin and water. He looked at the flat with some disdain, and decided to take up John’s advice to leave the flat and walk a bit more. After showering, dressing, and defeating the stairs, Sherlock hailed a taxi and went to pester Lestrade for more files. Perhaps the DI would give him something of more interest if he saw that the detective was moving about on his own, although still irritatingly hampered by the brace.

By the time he returned home it was already well into the afternoon and he was slightly more exhausted than he would want to admit. Sherlock couldn’t stop himself from audibly groaning when he saw the black car in front of 221 Baker Street.

He made his way upstairs to find his brother seated in John’s armchair and sipping a cup of tea, umbrella leaning against the side of the chair. Sherlock spotted a file and a small package in his own armchair.

“The file, as requested, and a new phone.”

Sherlock went to sit in his chair, doing his best not to look tired or unstable on his feet.

“Mrs. Hudson was glad to see you moving about again,” said Mycroft, “though you shouldn’t push yourself too much.”

Sherlock set the folder on the arm of his chair and set to work removing the tracker from his phone. Mycroft sighed, watching his brother work.

“Have you considered,” his brother continued, “That Doctor Watson might not appreciate your going through his file?”

“Do shut up Mycroft,” Sherlock finally replied.

Mycroft made a noise that some might have construed as a chuckle, “It is a rather fascinating read, I must say. I spent some time updating it after your most recent case and discovered some other interesting assignments. Though, there’s still an entire year I can’t get a hold of.”

Sherlock continued messing about his phone, but eyed the file next to him.

“Talented man, your doctor.”

“I’m already aware that John is remarkable,” said Sherlock.

“You could try asking John, instead.”

“Ask me what?” said the familiar voice of the doctor as he entered the flat. Both brothers took the time to watch him set down a small brown bag and take off his coat, only to retrieve the bag again.

“I’ve been going over your file,” said Mycroft.

“Sounds terribly boring,” said John, stepping closer to them, “I’d offer you tea, but it looks like Mrs. Hudson beat me to it.”

“A charming woman,” said Mycroft, taking another sip.

John tossed the bag into Sherlock’s lap, “Is this me, then?” he said, picking up the file. Sherlock could tell he was irritated by the fact it was in the flat, or simply by the fact that Mycroft had a file on him at all, but he feigned a pleasant attitude. John opened it and browsed through its contents. “Are these my marks from grade school?” he said, “Hardly seems important.”

“My research team is very thorough,” Mycroft said with a smile.

“Do you like your gift Sherlock?” John asked while still browsing through his file, laughing nostalgically at something inside.

Sherlock turned his attention to the brown bag in his lap. It was cold, whatever it was. He hesitantly picked it up and examined the inside, “You got me fingers,” he stated.

“Stopped by the morgue and asked Molly if she could spare something to entertain you,” answered John, closing the file and setting it back down next to Sherlock. The detective tilted his head up at John, as if double checking that he was getting permission. John laughed, “It’s a boring read, but you might enjoy it,” he said, padding off into the kitchen.

Sherlock furrowed his brow, suddenly he didn’t want to read the file anymore.

Mycroft made another noise that might’ve been a chuckle, “I must be off, appointments to keep,” he said standing. “Doctor Watson,” he added, turning to face the kitchen, “if you ever find yourself looking for another job, MI5 would be more than happy to have you on board.”

John turned his attention away from the fridge, “Never going to happen,” he said happily.

Mycroft didn’t respond, but instead picked up his umbrella and left the flat.

Sherlock sat glancing from the apology bag of fingers and the file next to him and back again. He stood, picking both items up, and walked over to John by the fridge.

“You brought me body parts,” he stated.

“Obvious,” John responded mockingly, as he opened the fridge in search of something edible.

“John, I’m sorry for—“

John stood upright and looked at him properly, “I shouldn’t have yelled at you like that,” he said with a smile, “but don’t start expecting body parts every time I do something wrong.”

Sherlock extended the file towards him, “I haven’t opened it.”

“Keep it,” John said, “I meant it when I said I didn’t have any more secrets. But there are things that just don’t get mentioned if they’re never brought up.”

Sherlock cocked an eyebrow, “Like getting married?”

“That wasn’t… those weren’t exactly normal circumstances.”

Sherlock lowered his eyebrow and looked John in the eye as he set the file on top of the fridge.

John gave an understanding nod.

“How long?”

“Six months.”

“What happened?”

“She died.”

“…I’m, sorry,” said Sherlock, searching for the appropriate words.

John smiled, “I’ve had nearly two years to accept it.”

Sherlock blinked, doing the math in head, “But then you’d have to have met her almost immediately after I… fell.”

John closed the fridge door, “Yeah.” 

_Whirlwind indeed._

 

#

 

For the week following their discussion by the fridge, there was a relative peace at 221B Baker Street. Sherlock made use of the fingers John had gifted him, and John didn’t complain once until Sherlock went to the morgue and returned with whole hands. 

Sherlock did not bring up John’s extremely short relationship with Mary again, despite his curiosity, as it seemed apparent that John didn’t actually want to talk about it. Furthermore, no one else was talking about it either and so he was left to wonder what had occurred over the course of those six months that made John’s marriage to Mary such a taboo topic.

He also left The File unread to collect dust on top of the refrigerator. If he was going to learn everything there was to learn about John, he’d do it without his brother’s help.

Sherlock found additional reasons to leave the flat while John was at work when it came to his attention that if he complained about his knee feeling stiff from walking too much, John would sit next to him on the sofa and gently massage and help stretch his knee while watching telly. One night, John had become so involved in the plot of whatever film they were watching that he forgot what he was doing and left his hand to rest on Sherlock’s leg. Sherlock did not correct him, but looking back he realized that he’d been so distracted by it he couldn’t recall the name of the film though he didn’t think he’d intentionally deleted it.

When the following Saturday arrived, Sherlock spent his morning considering the possibility that John might massage his shoulder, neck, or feet if he complained about those as well. Of course he didn’t mention this to John, who was too busy sitting in his armchair reading the paper to notice that Sherlock kept accidentally staring at him.

That was when the creature arrived.

The creature was female, approximately twenty-seven years old, American, a pharmaceutical lab technician, green eyed, blonde headed with a pink ombré dyed in at the bottom, 5’5” but four of those inches could be accounted by its shoes, and appeared overly familiar with John Watson. It had popped into the flat without knocking or announcing itself with anything more than, “John, you think you could help me with these boxes?”

Sherlock watched with displeasure as John tossed down the paper with a smile and stood to give the creature a hug. _A hug._ “Beatrice!” he said, “I was starting to wonder if you were really going to turn up.”

“Can’t keep me away!” she replied with a smile, returning his hug and finally stepping back. 

Sherlock stood and approached the creature with an extended hand and a fake smile, “So you’re Beatrice.”

The creature took his hand and gave it shake that was far too firm for a lady, “And you are?”

“Sherlock Holmes.”

“You’re Sherlock Holmes?” she said, as Sherlock ended the hand shake.

“Yes.”

The creature turned to John and pointed at the detective, “This is Sherlock Holmes.”

“Yeah.”

Sherlock looked to John, “Is there something wrong with her that she needs everything repeated?”

The creature sucker punched him.

“What the hell was that for?” Sherlock yelled, stepping back and bringing his hand up to his now pained right eye. The comment had hardly been his worst social infraction.

The creature was shaking out her hand and rubbing at her knuckles, “Hmm, how about for being not dead?”

He heard John huff something about getting ice as he turned away, as if this wasn’t to be unexpected.

“What does that have to do with you?”

“Somebody needed to punch you.”

“John punched me!”

The creature contemplated this, “One for each year,” she said with a smile.

Sherlock glared with his uncovered eye, he could hear John returning with the cold pack but let loose on the creature anyway, “You likely perceived that as a show of friendship but that’s only due to the fact you lack normal social understanding due to moving about frequently as child, likely with an abusive father and a mother who worked too much. You’re intelligent but you lack maturity and seek out attention though flashy styling, an overly pugnacious and outspoken attitude, and an over-active sex life. You’ve been in London less that twelve hours and already been in someone’s bed doing anything but sleeping.”

Sherlock would have continued, but John had returned with two cold packs in his hands. The creature reached over and took one from John’s hand, “Good Lord, he is impressive.”

The detective scowled at her, she wasn’t the least bit offended. John sighed, “You two are going to be a handful, aren’t you?” he said, stepping closer to Sherlock. “Let me take a look,” John instructed, gently prying the hand Sherlock still had pressed up to his eye. The Doctor examined it quickly and applied the cold pack, “Lucky you for you Beatrice’s bark is worse than her bite, should only be a light bruise.”

Sherlock stared down at John, going so far as to lean down to let the doctor tend to his slightly tender eye, though in truth Beatrice lacked the reach to do too much damage. A gentle cough from the creature tore their attention away. She was leaning against the door frame, holding a cold pack to her knuckles and giving them a knowing smile, “Should I give you two a moment?”

The detective took hold of the cold pack himself and stepped away from the doctor, whom he couldn’t help but notice had a bit of a blush in his cheeks.

John cleared his throat, “Right, why don’t I help you with those boxes,” he said with a smile, the kind he gives to Mrs. Hudson. 

Sherlock felt something like relief to see it wasn’t _his_ smile.

 

#

 

The creature didn’t have much, just a few boxes of clothes she’d stored at a former London boyfriend’s house. Former because after she’d picked up her things and spent an hour in his bed, she’d informed him she’d moved on.

Once John had helped her carry the boxes up to the top most room of the building, she had requested his assistance buying some living necessities and the two had left to go shopping and ‘catch up’ though the detective felt she was already plenty ‘caught up’ with John’s life. Sherlock was sitting on the sofa, feet propped up on the table, not sulking and not waiting for John to get home when the door to the flat opened. He silently damned himself for looking up expectantly to see if John had returned.

Instead, it was the creature. The creature, without John.

“Relax,” she said, holding up her hands as if surrendering, “John went to pick up some food, he’ll be here in a minute.” 

The creature kicked off her heels and threw a small shopping bag down on the coffee table by Sherlock’s feet.

“Do not make yourself comfortable,” he told her.

“It’s Saturday.”

“What does that have to do with it?”

“Saturday is movie night, its tradition,” she said, plopping down next to him on the sofa.

“Go away,” he demanded.

“No,” she answered, reaching up and grabbing him by his chin. She tilted his head this way and that, much to his annoyance. “You are a very pretty man.”

He swatted her hand away, but she just reached up and ran a hand through his curls, “What kind of product do you use?”

“I don’t use product.”

“Yes you do,” she said flatly. “Look at the curls,” she said, scrunching her nose and pulling one of his curls out to its full length, “I’m going to call you Sir Locks.”

“You are not,” he said swatting her hand away again.

“Do you wear contacts?”

“No.”

“Is there even a name for that eye color?”

“They’re—“ Sherlock started to answer, but John walked through the door, “Oh thank God, John. Get this creature away from me.”

“Beatrice,” John chastised, walking towards the kitchen, “Keep your hands to yourself.”

She lifted her hands back into the surrendering pose, “I’m not touching your boyfriend.”

John just laughed and cleared away space on the table for the take out containers.

Sherlock watched as John set out all the containers and he felt the creature lean in towards him so that her shoulder was against his. “He didn’t correct me,” she whispered.

He looked down at her, “Go away.”

“Nope,” she answered, putting her feet up on the table alongside his.


	3. Creature

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ch. 3 is up. (I'll be doing another edit over it fairly soon as I'm posting it pretty late in the day.)
> 
> I'm beginning to think Beatrice is like the ultimate wingman for Sherlock.

Beatrice Jameson was a strange creature indeed. 

She appeared in the flat without warning regardless of whether or not John was present. If John was absent, she would talk to Sherlock –about nothing of interest—even if he was actively not listening. He had learned, however, from her prattling that the pharmaceutical company she worked for, Shaman Pharmaceuticals, had labs the world over. Her previous stay in London had been to intern with the company after the completion of her doctoral program in New York. She’d then been offered a permanent position at a different location in Houston, Texas, but had been asked to return temporarily after one of the research technicians here in London had up and quit near the end of a major research project which Beatrice had helped to set up during her internship.

She kept odd hours, often leaving in the middle of the night to check samples and then staying in her flat for two or three days at a time only to leave for work and remain there for another twenty-four or forty-eight hour time period. 

She always had energy, no matter the time of day, though her mood was unpredictable and ever-changing. On the other hand, anytime Sherlock brought his deductive eye on her and pulled forward any embarrassing, upsetting, or generally ‘not good’ deduction, she’d just shrug and say ‘guilty as charged’. 

Sherlock deduced early on that she and John likely had a tryst during her previous stay, but neither seemed to be expecting or seeking a second bout. He suspected alcohol had been involved but that they had chosen to overlook it and maintained a friendship of sorts.

While she had little sense for personal space, she did seem aware of Sherlock’s boundaries and only infiltrated his space to make comments about John. Specifically, she liked pointing out when John let things slide past him, like her comment about Sherlock being his boyfriend. Or, she would draw Sherlock’s attention to John when he was doing something like bending over to pick something up off the floor. She frequently made inappropriate comments about John that, on occasion, distracted Sherlock for days as in when John had licked a bit of sauce from his thumb and she’d leaned over and told Sherlock to imagine John was licking something quite different.

Once, she’d caught him staring at John without her prompting and he’d heard her comment to herself that she ‘shipped it’.

John seemed oblivious to her constant comments about him and she did not seem to be obliged to comment on Sherlock’s behavior to John. She was absolute torture to be around, especially if John was also in the room. She’d been at Baker Street for three weeks now and had been Sherlock’s prime motivation for leaving the flat nearly daily. He’d assisted Lestrade with at least a dozen exceedingly boring ‘cases’ just for an excuse to not be at the flat while the creature was prowling about. 

Now, Sherlock found himself sitting pensively on the sofa, as close to the window he could possibly get without being on the arm of the sofa and waiting for her to arrive.

It was Saturday. John had picked some horrid film and Beatrice would be arriving with food shortly. They’d both felt it was vital that Sherlock join them for their Saturday night take-out and bad movie. Tonight, John had picked a Monty Python film, which he’d already stuck in the player. 

Sherlock watched as John opened a beer and plopped down on the sofa’s opposite end. 

John took a sip from his beer and laughed to himself, “I thought you’d be more excited about today.”

“What’s exciting about a snake movie and dinner with the creature?”

“Did you delete Monty Python again?” John asked, and then, shaking his head, “You shouldn’t call her that.”

“She calls me Sir Locks.”

John gestured vaguely with his beer, as if their mutual name calling was fair, “I just thought you’d be excited that it was the last day in your brace.”

“Last day in—“ Sherlock mentally counted the days since his surgery, and then tore at the brace on his leg, much to John’s amusement.

“What’s so funny?” the creature asked from the door.

“He finally remembered his brace.”

“You didn’t remind him did you?”

“Course not,” said John.

“Damn,” she said, trying to kick off her heels and balance the food, “I lose the bet.”

John turned his head and gave Sherlock a wink, but the detective just scowled at him.

She placed the bag of take-out on the coffee table and gestured at John with her other hand, “Scoot, I hate sitting in the middle.”

“You always sit in the middle,” John commented.

“And I always end up wedged between the sofa cushions or jabbed by Sir Locks's pointy elbows, now scoot,” she demanded, sitting in the space John had vacated and then stretching out so that John ended up close enough to Sherlock that he could feel the warmth of skin next to him. 

When John leaned forward to sort the take-out he caught Beatrice giving him a wink as well, Sherlock continued to scowl. 

John started the film and spent the first thirty minutes cajoling Sherlock to eat by prodding him with his elbow. An hour in and Sherlock was already planning to delete the film again and growing mildly irritated with Beatrice who kept wriggling and ‘accidentally’ pushing John into Sherlock’s space.

Sherlock was grateful when his phone rang half-way through the film and even more thankful when it turned out to be Lestrade.

“Please tell me you have a case,” Sherlock said.

“Are they making you watch Monty Python again?”

“Case?”

“Yeah, looks like a double murder, I’ll text the address.”

John had already stopped the film, “Sorry Bea, The Work calls.”

The creature jumped up from the sofa, “Let me come with you!”

“Absolutely not,” Sherlock answered with a sneer, while John added his own, “I don’t think that’s a great idea.”

“I won’t say a peep,” she said to Sherlock, ignoring John’s protests, “I just want to see you work, John says its incredible.”

“No,” said Sherlock, enunciating the word coldly.

“I’ll stop calling you Sir Locks.”

Sherlock contemplated this, “Fine, but not a word and only this once,” he agreed.

“Sherlock, I don’t think—“ started John.

“Oh come now John, just the once,” Sherlock said with his fake smile.

“Pleeease, John,” begged Beatrice.

John sighed, “You two are going to get me arrested.”

Sherlock quickly put on his coat and the scarf John had bought to replace the one that had been soaked in blood; even if it was May, the night air was chilling. Not only had he gotten out of watching the rest of that horrid film, but he had no knee brace, a double murder, and he’d never have to hear the name Sir Locks again. 

Sherlock smiled as he left the flat.

 

#

 

Sgt. Donovan was waiting for them at the police line. The yard had set up a barrier to keep back media and onlookers as one of the deceased had been shot on the front lawn of the house. When she saw them exit the taxi and approach she turned away from them and called out to Lestrade, “Freaks here, and he’s got another sidekick.”

While Sherlock ignored her, he could hear John’s deep intake of breath that indicated he was angry but was surprised when it was Beatrice, not John, who replied to the Sgt. 

“Why do you call him that? Sherlock. Why do you call him a freak?”

“And you are?” asked the Sgt.

“Ah, forgive me, Beatrice Jameson,” she said, extending a hand.

Donovan extended her own hand as Lestrade was just reaching them and John gave a low warning to Beatrice, “Be nice.” Sherlock had only ever heard John give that warning to him before and it caught not only Sherlock’s attention but Lestrade’s as well. They turned away from the crime scene to observe.

Beatrice took Sgt. Donovan’s hand in her own but then tightened the grip forcefully and place her other hand along Donovan’s wrist so that the Sgt. couldn’t pull out of the grip. Smiling, Beatrice asked again, “Now why is it you call him a freak?”

Donovan did not back down at the subtle threat, and gave her normal response, “He’s a psychopath, how many people do you know that light up like its Christmas when they hear about a murder?”

“It’s funny you should ask,” said Beatrice, still smiling but tightening her grip.

“Beatrice,” John warned again.

“You see, I work in pharmaceuticals and you wouldn’t believe how happy we are when an epidemic breaks loose, big money in it for us, and so. Many. Things. To learn,” she said, visibly tightening her grip with each word until Donovan flinched and attempted to pull free. Beatrice’s grip remained steady, “Specifically though, I work with anti-psychotic medication, since my specialty is in medications intended for mental disorders I've gained a rather keen eye for the symptoms of said disorders and I have to say I greatly disagree with your diagnosis. At best, he’s a high-functioning sociopath.”

Donovan straightened up, pretending like her hand didn’t hurt, “Get that line from him?”

“Oh no,” Beatrice said, broadening another perfect smile, “You see, I’m not even convinced he’s a sociopath, but that isn’t really the point.”

“Is it not?” replied Donovan.

“No,” Beatrice said, losing the smile and hardening her voice, “The point is that it is _highly_ inappropriate for a member of Scotland Yard, a role model to her fellow officers and citizens, to propagate such terrible labels and negative stereotypes on the mentally ill.”

Donovan did not have a reply this time.

“It was a pleasure meeting you, Sgt.,” Beatrice said, her smile reappearing as she relinquished her grip on Sally’s hand. She turned and looked at the three men staring at her, Lestrade and Sherlock with something akin to shock or surprise, and John with the same look he gave Sherlock when he’d crossed a line.

“Oh please, John,” Beatrice said, “We’ve all got our causes, don’t get cross with me for defending mine.”

John sighed, “I told you it was a bad idea to bring her here.”

“I only wanted to meet the Sgt.,” she responded, walking away from where Donovan was doing her best not to rub her hand, and towards Sherlock and Lestrade. “You must be Greg,” she said, “Pleasure to finally meet you.”

“I was starting to think these two had made you up,” Lestrade joked, “but suddenly I don’t think either of them were exaggerating.”

“I’m certain I don’t know what you mean,” she laughed. “C’mon” she said, shoving the detectives arm, “Impress me so we can get out of here, I’m cold.”

Impress her he did. There was something about the combination of the missing knee brace, the double murder, and Donovan’s aching hand that greatly improved the detective’s mood. He was quickly able to determine that the husband in the yard had been shot by his wife, but that the wife had been shot by the husband’s lover, the gardener. Their suspect was a twenty something year old male, who’d probably run because he’s still trying to gain citizenship and a murder charge would not help the process.

As they walked away from the scene, Sherlock was happy to see John’s face full of pride, as it usually was after a successful case. 

“Hey Sherlock,” Beatrice said, pulling Sherlock’s attention away from his flat mate, “you think you could swing by my work sometime? I think I might have a case for you.”


	4. Burning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ch.4 provides us with some much needed information about Mary, the first hints of a worthwhile case, as well as a 'heart to heart' between a psychopath and a sociopath.

The detective spent most of Sunday observing Beatrice's behavior, both that day and what he'd witnessed in the past three weeks. He considered her various actions and John's passing comments about her previous time in residence at Baker Street. By the time Monday arrived, he'd reached a conclusion.

Sherlock was dressed and ready before either John or Beatrice had woken. He made tea and sat waiting for John at the table. 

When the doctor arrived in the kitchen, dressed but groggy, twenty minutes later, he examined the now cold tea with suspicion but sat down to drink it anyway. 

"John," said Sherlock, "I believe it is socially expected of me to inform you that Beatrice is a psychopath."

John looked up from his cold tea, "And?"

“And she’s an _actual_ psychopath with a lack of empathy, a knack for violence and manipulation, and a strong likelihood for eventual criminal behavior.”

“Right,” said John, “and?”

"You knew?"

He shrugged, "I've seen her medicine cabinet."

"And you aren't concerned?"

John smiled at him, it was his smile, the one that made Sherlock's heart stutter, "Are you? Worried, that is."

"Not now."

"Well," said John, "I'll worry when you're worried." He stood and went to put his tea cup in the sink, "Thank you."

"It's just tea, John," said Sherlock, staring down at the scars in the table. 

Sherlock was surprised when John stood behind him, placed his hand lightly on the detective's shoulder and kissed the top of his head, "I meant for your concern." And then he moved away just as quickly as he had moved in and Sherlock sat in silence as John left for work. 

Soon after John's departure, Beatrice popped in through the kitchen entrance to the flat, "You coming or what?"

Sherlock looked up at her but didn't reply. 

She sighed, "What did he do?" 

He scowled at her, "You already know."

"Guilty. I ran into him on the landing," she confessed, "Tell you what. You come to work with me and talk to my boss about his problem and I'll buy you a cup of coffee and give you some advice about John Watson."

"I don't need your help with John."

"Yes, you do," she said with a grin, "Now hurry up."

 

#

 

Beatrice didn't bother with small talk or her normal prattling during the taxi ride to the lab. She gave Sherlock a wide berth as they walked into the building. She led him silently to the project supervisor's office down the hall from her lab space.

"Scott," she said, knocking on the open door, "Can I take a few minutes to introduce you to someone?"

The older man behind the desk stood and extended a hand, which the detective ignored. 

"Scott Henderson, meet Sherlock Holmes. He's a consulting detective. I think he can help with your problem, discreetly."

"It's a company problem, really," Scott corrected. 

"I presume this concerns the employee who left her post without warning two months ago," Sherlock said.

"As a matter of fact," said Scott. 

Beatrice smiled, "I need to check some samples, so I'll just leave you boys to it." With that, she left the office. 

"What did she take?" asked Sherlock.

Mr. Henderson returned to his seat, "Margie was bad about taking print outs of reports and such home with her. When she quit, we reminded her to return anything she'd left with. She'd promised to return them when she came back to retrieve her final paycheck."

"But she didn't have them?"

"She never came back for the check, nearly £5,000. We've attempted to contact her, but it’s like she's vanished."

"What was she working on?"

"We've been working on developing a new anti-psychotic medication, specifically for dealing with symptoms of schizophrenia."

"Some of your results weren't what was expected?"

"Anti-psychotic has become anti-brain tumor."

"That would be expensive information to lose to a competitor, why not contact the police?"

"We have, but they haven't found anything."

Sherlock wrote down an email address, "Send me her personnel file."

"You'll have it before you leave the building," assured Mr. Henderson. 

Sherlock located Beatrice in her lab, and found an entirely different creature at work. She had her hair pulled back, lab coat on, and was stoically examining the results of some recently received samples. Her workspace was clean and organized.

"You owe me coffee," he said.

She turned away from her work, "You just want to talk about John."

"I have something else to discuss with you," said Sherlock. He waited for her to set her lab in order and followed her down to a coffee shop just down the street from the lab.

They ordered their coffees and sat in a table at the back of the shop. 

"Ask your question," Beatrice said, "You've been wanting to ask me something since I crushed Donovan's hand."

“Do you consider John a friend?”

“More like a confidante,” she said plainly.

"You're a psychopath," said Sherlock, to which she raised an eyebrow, "Why do you have such interest in John's, and my...our--"

"Relationship?" offered Beatrice.

"It's not as if you actually care," finished Sherlock. 

She contemplated this, "You're right, I don't care about you or your relationship, I certainly can't relate to whatever it is you feel for each other, but John helped me to understand people better and to find some healthier outlets. He and I met when both our lives were in the shitter, and if there is anyone in this world whom I want to be happy it is John Watson, because he's certainly the only person to care about my happiness."

"And you think I am what will make John happy?"

"I do," she said, leaning forward on her elbows, "When I met John, he was grieving over the loss of someone he loved dearly."

"Mary."

"No, Sherlock, not Mary. Her death was inevitable, expected."

Sherlock furrowed his brow.

"You really don't know anything about what you did to him, do you?"

"Well then, explain it," he said, irritated by her vague responses.

She sighed and took a sip of coffee, "You can ask him about Mary, and me, and anything else on your own."

"Fine," he spat, starting to stand.

She grabbed his wrist, not hard but enough that he knew she had more to say, "You want to know why he ignores the obvious mutual attraction? Why he keeps his distance? Why he kissed your head and then stood on the landing cursing himself?"

Sherlock didn’t respond, but he didn’t pull away either. 

"Because John Watson is like a child fascinated by fire. Everyone warned him not to get too close to the flames, told him to be careful, but he reached out anyway and got himself hurt. And like a child he's still fascinated by those beautiful, dangerous flames but he will never reach out again because he's afraid to be hurt again. You burned him Sherlock Holmes, burned the heart right out of him."

Sherlock pulled his hand away, trying to ignore the voice of Moriarty now echoing through the halls of his mind palace, "John is stronger than most people."

"There is no muscle, no bone, no weapon, no armor in the world that can protect a heart in love from the cruelty of that which it loves. Strength has nothing to do with it."

Sherlock stepped away from the table, but stopped when Beatrice spoke one last time.

“It’s fortunate, Mr. Holmes, that the heart can be healed and that you are not made entirely of flames.”

Sherlock walked away. 

 

#

 

The detective distracted himself by trying to find more information concerning the missing lab technician, Margaret “Margie” Prendergast.

He started by going to the Yard to look into their investigation. They’d interviewed her landlord and spoken to a few friends, but there didn’t seem to be any family. No one had seen her since a week after she’d resigned from her position at Shaman. While he didn’t find anything in their investigation very useful, he had to admit he was pleased when he saw how Sgt. Donovan was nursing her hand – Beatrice had deeply bruised it, if not managed to fracture some of the metacarpals.

Sherlock thought for a moment that John certainly had a way of attracting the mentally unstable, but when he stopped to consider John’s own background and addictions, he determined it was actually Mrs. Hudson who was the magnet.

After visiting Scotland Yard, Sherlock went to see the missing woman’s flat for himself. The landlord was happy to let him after he had quickly flashed Lestrade’s badge at him and claimed to be following up on the investigation. 

According to the landlord, she’d been rather nervous the last week or so of her residence and had mentioned her intention to leave not just London, but the UK entirely. The police report had noted that her travel documents were gone from the apartment, but that she’d left a filled suitcase behind. Both the landlord and the Yard were convinced that she’d left in a hurry in the middle of the night.

Sherlock damned the fact that her flat had been cleaned at some point in the last two months as he was certain there was no doubt evidence of a struggle that the members of the Yard had failed to notice. Her former landlord did provide Sherlock with a key to a storage unit where her belongings were being held temporarily. 

Instead of heading directly to the storage unit, Sherlock tracked down several of her friends to interview, but again found little information of use. He contemplated going to the storage unit to search, but his leg was stiff and cramping and sore from sudden overuse so he returned to Baker Street instead.

It was late when he arrived home and John was in his armchair with his laptop. “There are leftovers in the fridge,” John told him, “And Beatrice texted, said she won’t be in tonight, so she won’t be bothering you.”

The detective removed his coat and shoes, unbuttoned his suit jacket, and sat down in his own armchair, more exhausted than he wanted to admit.

John looked up, concerned, “You aren’t getting sick, are you?”

“No,” Sherlock said coldly, “It’s just my bloody leg.”

“Have you been out all day?” John asked harshly, closing his laptop and setting it aside, “You just got out of your brace.” 

“New case,” said Sherlock.

John shook his head, leaving his chair to kneel on the floor in front of Sherlock. The doctor’s hands went to work, methodically helping to stretch out the sore muscles and irritating aches in his knee. This had been awkward the first time, but John had gotten accustomed to it. 

“John,” said Sherlock, distracting the concentrating doctor, “tell me about Mary.”

The doctor glanced up at him, trying to get a read on his face, “There really isn’t much to tell. We got married, she died.”

“No one talks about her,” said Sherlock, “as if they didn’t approve of her.”

John huffed, almost like a laugh, “I suppose that’s true. Lestrade told me it was illegal.” He kept massaging Sherlock’s leg, though it had already relaxed a great deal, “I met her at Ella’s office.”

“You went back to your therapist?”

“Grief counseling.”

Sherlock nodded, though John didn’t see it.

“Mary had just been diagnosed with Stage 4 liver cancer. Multiple tumors, spread to the lymph nodes, signs of it in her lungs, she didn’t have long.”

“You married a woman with Stage 4 liver cancer?”

“Two weeks after I met her, which was two months after your, uh…” he cleared his throat, “She didn’t want to die alone, I needed a distraction.”

“You married her as a distraction?”

John’s hands stopped moving, but he kept them gently cupped around Sherlock’s knee. His gaze was firmly on his hands and avoiding Sherlock’s face, “It was nice to care for someone, to be able to help.”

“Did you love her?”

“I cared about her.”

“But did you love her?”

John shifted his gaze even further away, “Not like I should have.”

“Lestrade probably thought it was an insurance scheme.”

“Yeah,” John laughed, “It wasn’t, by the way.”

“I know.”

They were silent for a passing moment, Sherlock watched as John bit his bottom lip, obviously lost in thought.

“What about Beatrice?” asked the detective.

John finally looked up at him, “What about her?”

Sherlock lifted an eyebrow at him and John blushed a little.

“There were a couple of, er, encounters, but nothing serious. She’s not exactly the relationship type, and I wasn’t really looking for another one myself.”

“Just sex, then.”

“Just sex,” John said, removing his hands from Sherlock’s knee and leaning back on the heels of his feet.

“Do you consider Beatrice a friend, John, despite her condition?”

John laughed at him, “Is the high functioning sociopath jealous of the psychopath in the adrenaline junkie’s life?”

“Not jealous,” said Sherlock, “just, concerned about your attachment to her.”

John laughed again, a bit more naturally than the first, “I wouldn’t necessarily say friend, more like confidante. I trust her, but I also don’t expect her to concern herself too much with me. It’s a rather distant friendship model.”

“Can’t get hurt if you don’t let her too close?”

John looked down again, like a punished child. “Exactly,” he said quietly.

Beatrice was right, and Sherlock hated it even more than when Mycroft was right. The sad look on John’s face twisted Sherlock’s stomach, stifled his breath, and dried his throat. He hated that he’d done that to John, and that it had taken him eight months to realize it.

Sherlock leaned forward in his chair, placing his hands on John’s shoulder. He stood up, gently prompting John to do the same.

“I’m sorry, John,” Sherlock said.

“What for?” John asked, risking a look up at Sherlock.

Sherlock leaned forward and gave John a soft kiss on the lips, and then rested his forehead against John’s, “For burning you,” he said softly.

John was still for moment, and Sherlock worried he’d done the wrong thing, that John would not appreciate Sherlock’s attempts at closing the distance.

Then, he felt John’s hands slide under his suit jacket and onto his sides and John pushed up on his toes to get to Sherlock’s lips. It wasn’t as soft as the kiss Sherlock had given John, it was more certain, more open. Sherlock leaned into it, rocking John back onto his heels so that the doctor’s grip tightened into fistfuls of Sherlock’s shirt.

Sherlock felt John’s tongue run along his bottom lip and then a gentle nip where the tongue had been. He opened his mouth slightly, allowing the doctor to explore and coax his own tongue forward. Sherlock’s grip on John’s shoulder tightened as John’s kiss became more urgent, more forceful until finally they had to pull apart for air.

John loosened his grip and looked down guiltily, “I’ve got work in the morning,” he said quietly.

Sherlock had not expected that particular response, but understood that John was trying to set a distance again. Sherlock kissed the top of John’s head, “Get some rest then.”

John stepped back and out of Sherlock’s grip and quietly left the room. Sherlock listened as John made his way upstairs and into his bedroom.

_It’s fortunate, Mr. Holmes, that the heart can be healed and that you are not made entirely of flames._

Beatrice _had_ been right about everything else thus far.


	5. Insane

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More angst here than anticipated, I'll do my best not to let it drag on.

John pulled off his jumper and trousers and lay down on his bed in his boxers and a white undershirt. He rubbed his eyes and sighed. 

Despite his many ventures and experiences, despite war and torture and gun chases, despite the hovel and bomb vests at swimming pools, he had never been more terrified than when he had kissed Sherlock Holmes. 

Terrified and yet comforted. 

It had been euphoric to give in, to finally taste those lips, to be kissed by Sherlock. The terror came after, when his brain gently reminded the rest of him what it had been like to lose the detective the first time. John remembered Sherlock on the pavement and the more recent image of blood gushing from the detective's neck. He shuddered at the thought and swallowed down a lump in his throat.

Then Sherlock's apology played through his head, perhaps the detective understood after all, or at least was beginning to. He thought about Sherlock's kiss, the first one, the timid one that was just testing the waters, comforting John, assuring him. John drifted off to sleep replaying it in his head, and fearing what it might lead to. 

When he woke it was to the sound of the morning traffic on the street and the sweep of a turning page. Groggily, he looked to his alarm clock to check the time but the electronic face of the clock was blank.

There was another sound of a turning page and John groaned in annoyance when he looked down to find Beatrice seated on the foot of his bed flipping through one of his old text books. 

“Do you suppose a child who eats his Halloween candy in a week is more or less sad when it is gone than the child who tries to make it last by only eating one piece a week, but has most of it thrown out by their parents?”

“What?”

"I called into work for you. Yours not mine, the lab needs me," she said.

"Why?" he groaned.

"Sherlock's got a case. I thought that's what you do, like some bizarre date... or courting ritual."

"We do not catch criminals on dates."

"But you do date?"

“Go away,” he said, tossing a pillow at the back of her head.

“Can’t,” she said, turning another page, “I have a question for you.”

"What do you want, Bea?"

"Do you know the definition of insanity?"

"What?"

"In its simplest form, insanity is the act of doing the exact same thing over and over again and expecting different results."

John buried his head in the sheets, "Your point?"

"You kissed Sherlock last night," she said, still flipping through the book.

"How do you?"

He could hear the smile in her voice, "I came home earlier than expected, he was in a bit of a state, so I asked if he'd kissed you."

"Just like that? You asked and he told you?"

"No, but the man is freakishly pale, he's like a crustacean when he blushes."

John laughed, "He certainly can be crabby."

Beatrice threw the pillow back at him.

He laughed and sat up, "Bea, I still don't have a clue what you're talking about."

She stood and tossed the book next to his feet on the bed, "You'll work it out." She smiled at him and left him to prepare for the day. 

By the time John had called Sarah at the clinic to confirm they’d found someone to cover, showered, dressed, and made his way to the kitchen for toast, it was already ten in the morning and Beatrice was long gone. It was evident as well that Sherlock had gone out. 

It occurred to John that he didn’t even know what case Sherlock was working on. Perhaps The Work would be an ample distraction for both the doctor and the detective.

He typed out a text and then hesitated to send it, but decided it would be better than avoiding Sherlock all day.

-I seem to have the day off. New case?

The response came quickly.

Yard. Half hour. -SH

_So much for toast._

John got his shoes on, grabbed his keys, and headed for Scotland Yard. 

 

#

 

When he arrived, he made his way up to Lestrade’s office. The DI caught him just as John was stepping off the lift.

“John,” said Lestrade, “glad you’re here, he’s been in a mood all morning.”

“How long has he been here?”

“Couple hours, he’s been in the back interrogation room looking through missing persons files.”

“Ah,” said John, gesturing with his hand for Lestrade to lead the way.

Greg led him to the room where Sherlock had strewn folders all over the table and floor. “Damn it Sherlock!” yelled the DI when they entered the room, “I said to keep ‘em organized!”

“They are organized,” answered the detective, not looking up from the file in front of him. 

“This,” retorted Lestrade, “is NOT organized.”

John gave Greg a reassuring smile, “I’ll make sure they all get put back in order before we leave.”

The DI sighed, but gave John a nod, “Alright.”

John watched the DI leave the room and then returned his attention to the detective. Sherlock was no longer looking at the files, but instead was intently looking John over, attempting to deduce something. John licked his lips nervously, “What are we looking for?”

“A pattern,” Sherlock answered, returning his eyes to the files, “Shaman Pharmaceuticals has been trying to locate the employee who abandoned her post suddenly.”

“She take something?”

“No.”

“Running from something?”

“Someone, more likely,” Sherlock gestured vaguely with his hand at some unsorted files and then to the chair on the opposite side of the table. “I dismissed it at first as an attempt to run from debt, but the missing woman neglected to pick up her final paycheck and upon searching through her belongings I was able to locate the reports her former employer had requested she return.”

“And you think there might be more…” John trailed off, not certain what Sherlock thought there might be more of.

“Margaret Prendergast’s only redeeming quality was her skill as a pharmaceutical chemist,” Sherlock said flatly, “I am looking to see if she is the only one to go missing.”

John pursed his lips, “She has to have some other—“

“No. She’s below average in attractiveness, has no substantial wealth or family of substantial wealth, no apparent debts or addictions. She’s tediously boring.”

“Except,” John said, “for her skills in the lab.”

“Don’t make me repeat myself.”

“And have you found anything?”

Sherlock looked up with that glint in his eye that indicated he was rather proud of himself, “There are four others thus far, I believe I may have located the first victim. I’ll go back a few more months, but I doubt they’ll be others.”

“Four?”

“Plus Prendergast.”

“All pharmaceutical lab technicians?”

“No,” said Sherlock, “but all notably talented in their specific scientific fields.”

“Brilliant,” John said, opening the first file to search for the missing person’s occupation, “you’re brilliant.”

Thirty minutes later the detective declared they’d gone back far enough in the files, picked up the four he intended to abscond and stood to leave. John grabbed him by the back of his coat, “Pick up your mess, Sherlock.”

The detective groaned, “Why do you always do this?”

“Do what?”

“Attempt to make me clean, or eat, or be nice, or clean the body parts out of the fridge, or the countless other things you are always doing.”

John let go of the coat and squinched his eyebrows at him, “I don’t always—“

“Yes you do, John!” Sherlock half-shouted, mostly with sarcasm, “and it never works, you’ll end up cleaning this mess like always so why have the argument?”

John could hear Beatrice clearly in his head.

_In its simplest form, insanity is the act of doing the exact same thing over and over again and expecting different results._

_Oh God. I’m insane._

He must have been looking up at Sherlock with shock or horror or some combination of the two on his face because the detective suddenly wasn’t in a hurry to leave but instead had tilted his head with curiosity, “Are you alright, John?” And then, slightly louder, “John?”

The doctor blinked and laughed, _I’m not insane._ He assured himself, “Just thought of something, er, rather stupid actually. You’re right, I’ll clean up and meet you back at the flat.”

Sherlock eyed him suspiciously. “I think I’d better stay,” he said.

“No, no,” John said, “go, be brilliant. You’ll probably have it solved before I get back.”

The detective hesitated before leaving, but between John’s assurances and the call of The Work, he felt it was safe to leave.

John quickly went to work on the files, and thought over the list of things Sherlock had complained about. It was true John did frequently ask, plead, coerce, and demand those things of Sherlock but he never really _expected_ the end results to be different so much as he hoped that maybe he’d get lucky and Sherlock would be trying to appease or manipulate John that day and would follow the instruction. 

_Not insane, then._

She’d brought up his kiss with Sherlock right after, perhaps she was warning him? Reminding him what happened the last time he got too attached to Sherlock. 

Had his kiss with Sherlock been an act of insanity?

 

#

 

When John made it to the flat, he’d thoroughly worked himself up concerning his mental stability and his decision to kiss Sherlock back. 

When he walked into the flat and saw the detective leaning over the couch, busily pinning pictures to a map on the wall, John felt relieved. Sherlock was focused on The Work, John had time to think it all over. The thought of some extra time to think relaxed him. He felt his shoulders relax and his jaw unclench. The doctor hadn’t even realized just how tense he’d allowed himself to become.

Sherlock hadn’t looked away from the wall, but acknowledge John’s arrival, “Come and take a look, John.”

The doctor went to stand next to the detective, to read the names of the missing persons and take a look at the information Sherlock had webbed together across the wall. He leaned over the couch and stretched out a hand to swing a picture to the side so he could read a bit of information Sherlock had pegged behind the image.

Then the detective’s hands were suddenly on John’s waist, he could feel Sherlock standing directly behind him, feel the warmth of Sherlock’s body near his.

_So much for time to think._

John corrected his posture, standing up a little taller, and turned around, letting Sherlock’s hands drag lightly across his lower back as John turned. 

The doctor opened his mouth to speak, but Sherlock placed a finger over it, “You should stop thinking,” Sherlock said, “it’s annoying.”

John tried to read the look in Sherlock’s eyes, it wasn’t lust or amusement or joy, it wasn’t cold or calculating, it was searching. Sherlock’s eyes were searching for something in John that couldn’t simply be deduced, or simply wasn’t there.

Sherlock dropped his finger from John’s lips and leaned in for a kiss, but John stepped back and ended up sitting on the sofa due to lack of space in which to retreat. The detective looked down at him, looking confused? Hurt?

The doctor avoided eye contact and tried to force a laugh, “I told you that you wouldn’t like what you saw.”

“I still have my doubts that your statement is accurate,” Sherlock answered.

“Honestly Sherlock,” John said, feeling a slight tremor in his hand, “I’m really a coward.”

“You’re one of the bravest people I know, John, hardly a coward.”

“It’s easy to chase after someone when you have a gun,” said John.

“You don’t always have a gun, even unarmed you still risk death nearly weekly.”

“Dying is easy,” John blurted out.

Sherlock didn’t respond right away, but when he did it was cautious, “Do you mean to suggest that living is hard?”

John almost responded with a firm ‘yes’ but thought it over more carefully, “It is when you get left behind,” he said quietly to the floor.

Sherlock kneeled down in front of him so that they were closer to eye level, “I will never leave you behind John, never again, not ever. I’ve learned that lesson.”

John bit his lip, thinking over a response before asking, “Sherlock, do you suppose that a child who eats his Halloween candy in a week is more, or less, sad when the candy is gone than a kid who tries to make it last by only eating one piece a week, but has most of it thrown out by their parents?”

Sherlock seemed lost at first, not having expected the question, but then answered, “The first child may not have had as much time to enjoy their candy, but at least it was enjoyed to the fullest.”

John leaned forward and kissed Sherlock.


	6. Indulge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lestrade has horrible timing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're halfway through the story! The case will be picking up a bit, along with a great deal of the action. I wanted to give a big thank you to those of you who have continued to support and motivate my writing, your kudos and comments are extremely encouraging.
> 
> ___
> 
> The next update will be Monday, June 30th. I've got a rather busy weekend ahead of me!

John leaned forward from the sofa, took hold of Sherlock’s shirt collar to pull him forward, and kissed the detective.

This was not an assurance, or an apology, or an affirmation.

This was an indulgence. 

Something had clicked in John’s mind. Sherlock’s leaving would hurt, but it also hurt to keep him at bay. It was insane of John to keep distancing himself and think he’d wake up feeling better one day.

He needed to enjoy Sherlock while he had his attention.

And he did in fact have the detective’s attention.

John’s kiss was urgent and greedy. He took Sherlock in like a starving man would his breakfast, an addict his fix, like air for his lungs. He sank off the couch onto his knees, pushing Sherlock back so that he was seated on the heels of his feet with John very nearly straddling him. It gave the captain a height advantage over the detective so that Sherlock had to bend his head back to reach John’s lips.

The captain invaded Sherlock, mapping the detective’s mouth with his tongue, his left hand gripped the detective’s neck, and his thumb pressed into Sherlock’s cheek as the other hand loosened its grip on Sherlock’s shirt collar so that it could travel down to the buttons.

John pulled his mouth away from Sherlock’s lips to kiss, lick, and gently bite his way along the detective’s jaw to his neck. The captain licked a broad stripe up the detective’s neck and smiled when Sherlock stifled a moan, arched forward, and tightened his grip on John’s hips.

“John,” said Sherlock, half-heartedly trying to get his attention, “someone is on the stairs.”

John teasingly scraped his teeth over Sherlock’s collarbone, “Don’t care,” he answered, kissing the same spot.

“John,” Sherlock said through a ragged breath, “I think—“

John kissed the hollow space where Sherlock’s collar bones met, “Still don’t care.”

Sherlock’s breath stuttered, but he brought a hand up to John’s chest and pushed him back slightly, “I could be mistaken but I think it’s—“

The door to the flat opened before Sherlock could finish his sentence and in stepped Lestrade, “Sherlock, there’s a—“

John and Sherlock looked up at him, like teens caught by their parents. They were both panting, faces red, lips swollen, John still straddling Sherlock’s thighs. Had they been standing, Lestrade would have likely had an eyeful of yet more evidence.

Lestrade stood there gaping for a moment, closed his mouth, and then repeated the process before finally saying, “A body, found a body. I’ll, uh, wait downstairs.” He then hurriedly escaped from the flat.

There was a moment of quiet, and then there was nothing to do but laugh.

 

#

 

It took approximately fifteen minutes for the two of them to get through their fit of giggles, calm themselves down and straighten themselves up. When they finally stepped out onto Baker Street, Lestrade said nothing, but lifted an eyebrow at John.

John gestured to Sherlock with an out-turned thumb, “He started it.”

“I did no such thing,” said the detective.

“Oh please,” said John, “you and your cheekbones are the culprit.”

“My—“ Sherlock started to reply, but Lestrade cut him off, “I do _not_ care who started it and I certainly don’t want to know what _it_ is. Now get in the car, there’s a dead man by the Thames you need to see.”

“I’m already on a case,” said Sherlock.

“He’s one of your missing persons,” said Lestrade, “Went missing ‘bout six months ago, worked in a water quality lab.”

“Thomas Buckley,” Sherlock provided, opening a door to Lestrade’s car, “Interesting.”

Sherlock remained deep in thought on the way to the scene, refocused on the case. Lestrade occasionally glanced back at John in his review mirror, though John couldn’t be tasked to care as he was too busy staring out the window wishing he was still back at the flat.

When they arrived, Sherlock dashed off to the body like an excited child. John and Lestrade made their way to the scene at a more casual pace.

“So,” said Greg, “you two are, uh, congratulations?”

John chuckled at him, “While your acceptance and congratulations are appreciated, I’m honestly not sure what the hell you walked in on.”

Greg frowned, “New thing then?”

John chuckled again, climbing under police tape, “Yeah, you could say that.”

“Honestly John,” said Greg, “I think Anderson may have won the pool then.”

“Shut up,” said John.

“I’m serious,” Greg laughed, “think he just won £300.”

“No,” John scoffed, “three hundred?”

“If I remember correctly.”

“Well, let’s wait to go announcing things shall we?”

“I’ll be sure to put in another bid,” Lestrade joked.

“John!” Sherlock yelled, leaning down by the bloated body, “I need you to confirm the cause of death.”

“Real romantic you got yourself there, John,” Lestrade teased.

“Shut it,” John answered, though he was smiling. The doctor went to squat down next to the body and searched for a cause of death. The search did not take very long, but he was sure to be thorough. Though the water and bloating of the body had certainly done some damage to the evidence, the wounds along the back of the head were most assuredly from before passing.

“Bludgeoning,” John said, “and if I had to guess, I’d say there was a bit of struggle.”

“Why?”

“Scratches on his arms, broken thumb,” John answered, “he didn’t know how to make a proper fist.”

“Very good, John,” said the detective.

“Gonna’ give me a biscuit?”

“Don’t be difficult,” said Sherlock, standing. “Thank you, Lestrade,” he said, turning to the DI, “this has been enlightening.”

“Welcome,” Lestrade said, warily.

“Though it probably could have waited until the body arrived at the morgue,” Sherlock said coldly, “Your timing is horrible.”

Lestrade wasn’t sure whether Sherlock meant to be insulting him or making a joke, but he laughed either way. Sherlock stalked away from the scene and towards the closest street where he could hail a taxi, John diligently followed behind.

The detective managed to flag down a taxi with relative ease and held the door open for John before sliding into the back of the cab himself. John couldn’t help but notice an edge to Sherlock, a sort of nervous stillness that John had witnessed only a handful of times before. He’d seen it when he’d struggled with Irene Adler’s cell phone, when John had refused to explain those phone calls before the murders of the members of the tontine, and in the days just before the fall. 

John hated that stillness.

“Sherlock,” he hesitated, “Are you alright?”

“I’m fine, John,” answered the detective, though he didn’t look up at the doctor.

“Is it the case?”

“No.”

“Me?”

“Not… exactly.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

John watched as the color in Sherlock’s cheeks rose and the detective made a strong effort to look anywhere but at John. “Not here,” said the detective sharply, then he added “I need to speak to the research directors.”

“Of course,” John said, “best to focus on the case for now.”

 

#

 

They spent several hours tracking down the five supervisors of the five missing scientists, but did eventually manage to find and interview them all. 

By the time they made it back to the flat, it was well past dinner time and John was both starving and exhausted. They emerged into the flat to find Beatrice watching some American drama. Though she never took her eyes from the screen, she said, “I was beginning to wonder if I should call the Yard.”

Sherlock frowned at her, “Why are you here?”

“Bigger television.”

John decided it was best to ignore them both and scrounge for edible food in the kitchen. He considered himself fortunate to find there were leftovers from Sunday night and made do with reheated pasta. Meanwhile, Sherlock went straight for his laptop to create a spreadsheet of common skills and work backgrounds of the missing persons. He did his best to ignore John as he stretched out his arms and back in the kitchen and to ignore Beatrice who seemed enthralled by the television. 

John scarfed down his meal in the kitchen and rinsed his plate before making some comment or other about a shower. Sherlock assumed John had said he’d be taking a shower, but the detective’s brain had only interpreted the fact John would be naked and in the shower. 

Shortly after John left the room, Beatrice turned off the television and stood up. Sherlock thought, and hoped, that she was leaving as well. Instead she moved towards him, sat in the chair across from him, and pulled his laptop away from him, sliding it across the wood of the table.

He looked up, intending to yell, but stopped short when he saw her face. This was not the creature Sherlock was familiar with. This was the psychopath that lived in the attic. 

Her face was stoic, blank except for a subtle, violent anger that radiated in her eyes but appeared nowhere else on her form. Her body was relaxed, her shoulders slack, her arms crossed comfortably as she leaned lightly on the other side of the desk.

Sherlock gave her his attention.

“I want to be very clear about a few things, Mr. Holmes.”

The detective raised an eyebrow and tilted his head ever so slightly, “Go on.”

“To start, you may be happy to know that my residence at Baker Street may be ending sooner than anticipated. They’ve offered me a permanent position, depending on which lab makes the best offer I’ll either be returning to Texas soon or finding a more permanent home in London. I also feel you deserve to be aware that while I recognize that John Watson needs you in his life as more than just a flat mate or friend, I do not necessarily like or approve of the risk you are to his well-being. Please know that regardless of whether I am in London or Texas or any other corner of the world, I will be paying very close attention Mr. Holmes. If you hurt him, I will find you and I will kill you and it will not be over quickly.”

Sherlock considered this for a moment. Considered her. He didn’t doubt her honesty.

“What is he to you,” asked Sherlock, “Why do you protect him so much?”

“I told you before Mr. Holmes. John Watson is the first person to ever care about my happiness, to be patient enough with me to show me another way of living. He is my confidante.”

“You’ve made yourself very clear,” said Sherlock, “but, your concerns are unwarranted.”

“Don’t make promises you can’t guarantee you’ll be able to keep, Mr. Holmes.”

He scowled at her, “Don’t make threats you can’t carry out.”

She stood and smiled at him, her mask was back in place, “You misunderstand me, Mr. Holmes. That was advice for your budding relationship, and I’m more than capable of keeping my promises. Regardless of who you might be related to.” 

Beatrice walked towards the door to the landing, but stopped and turned to look at him just as she opened the door, “Oh, and one last piece of advice. He’s got a spot right over his spine on the nape of his neck. Give it a good scrape with your teeth.” She smiled again, and gave him a wink, “If you want to know what it’s like for him to lose control that is.”

She left, closing the door behind her.

Sherlock found it extremely difficult to focus on The Work.


	7. Questions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 7 is up as promised! I had to change the rating as the boys are starting to get a bit hands-on and I suspect it will escalate quickly. 
> 
> I'll be going through and doing some editing/clean up this week, and chapters should update daily this week, just fyi. :)

Sherlock stayed up through the night, attempting to focus on the case, but growing more and more distracted with every passing moment. Around the time he heard John shuffling about upstairs, he left the flat to put in a request for some information from the homeless network. By the time he returned, John had left for work at the clinic already and Beatrice was headed to her own workplace as well. While she displayed her typical charm and smile, Sherlock found himself glaring defensively at her.

The detective flopped down on the couch, legs stretched out and fingers steepled below his chin, and tried to go over the facts of the case again.

_Five missing scientist, chemists specifically._

_All taken in the last six months – hadn’t noticed due to distraction from tontine case._

_Victims include :_

_Thomas Buckley – missing six months, worked in a water treatment facility –previously worked in pharmaceuticals – now deceased, attempted to run, will Beatrice drown me if I hurt John?_

_Damien Smithson – missing three months, research chemist specializing in induced dreaming and hallucinations – Does John know she’s been threatening people for him?_

_Eliza Spelling – missing two months, pharmaceutical development, specialization in pain killers – Why wouldn’t John know? He knew she’s a psychopath, seems to know everything about her. Confidantes._

_Richard Berkley – missing two months, was working on the same project as Spelling - Who has a confidante? What an odd word choice. Confidante. Makes them sound like royalty, or criminals._

_Margaret Prendergast – missing one month, pharmaceutical research: anti-psychotics - Seems an odd thing for Beatrice to work on, considering. Just who the hell is she anyway? Not like she cares about John, looks at him like she owns him._

 

Sherlock growled in anger, letting his arms swing down forcefully in the spaces beside him. He sighed and tried again.

_Buckley: Pharmaceutical research; Smithson: Hallucinogens; Spelling: Pain Relief; Berkley: Pain Relief; Prendergast: Anti-psychotics; Watson: Pheromone specialist_

Sherlock gave a defeated sigh. He was confident the homeless network would report a new drug on the market, something strong that had sprung up recently. He supposed he could wait until he’d retrieved information from them before trying to proceed with the case. Instead he let his mind drift towards the topics that insisted upon invading the work.

_Confidante: noun, a person with whom one shares a secret or private matter, trusting them not to repeat it to others._

_Another secret? Just how many secrets does John have?_

Sherlock considered what his brother had said when he’d brought Sherlock The File that now resided on top of the fridge. _“It is a rather fascinating read, I must say. I spent some time updating it after your most recent case and discovered some other interesting assignments. Though, there’s still an entire year I can’t get a hold of.”_

_An entire year?_

For a fleeting moment, Sherlock nearly lifted himself off the couch to go read The File. John _had_ given him permission to read it, or at least trusted him with its contents. He considered texting John to confirm he was allowed to read it. Surely Mycroft had sorted out what John and Beatrice had been up to during her previous residence here.

 _Does The File contain a list of all of John’s partners?_ Sherlock grimaced at the thought.

_Confidante. Not friend or lover or colleague or neighbor or flat mate. Confidante._

Sherlock scrunched his face in irritation, he supposed he could just ask John; but then, a confidante wasn’t really supposed to go telling other people the secret, now were they? It couldn’t be that bad, whatever it was. John’s a good person, he can be trusted.

_He does occasionally kill people._

Sherlock thought about how John had sighed right before shooting Major General Watts. As if it was just a minor irritation. On the few occasions it had come up afterwards, John had not so much as flinched or looked away or stammered at the admission he’d shot his former superior officer in the face. And yet, he’d been a complete wreck admitting to Malik’s assisted suicide. Where exactly did John draw that line?

_I wonder if he’d sigh and shoot Beatrice if she tried to hurt me._

Sherlock smiled at the thought, suddenly feeling like he had a leg up on Beatrice. Had John ever killed anyone for her? Not likely.

It was sort of romantic really, what John was willing to do for him, even when he wouldn’t let Sherlock near him, at least in the intimate sense. Sherlock found himself musing over John’s sudden advance on him, the feel of John’s hard kiss, his tongue on his neck, the soft feel of teeth on his collar bone, the heated bulge of John’s trousers. He felt himself growing more excited at the thought, heat pooling between his legs.

He’d been pushing the memory aside over the past twenty-four hours, despite its want for attention, but now he had time to indulge. Maybe it would help him to focus on the work if he dealt with his body’s physical desire.

He’d thought about it before, how John’s skin would feel against his, what John looked like completely naked, the man had always been so modest before. Now the doctor had fueled him with more data to work with, the feel of John’s lips, his tongue, teeth.

Sherlock undid his trousers and let his hand slide down to remove himself from his pants and ease the pressure of his erection against is too-tight trousers. He began to work his hand up and down the shaft, wondering what it would be like when, not if, John was doing this. He imagined John’s needy kisses along his length, John’s tongue. He pictured the way John’s face had looked like he wanted to devour Sherlock, to taste every inch of him. John had taken him by surprise, had been in such control.

Soon his hand was moving faster, thumb working over the head with each stroke. He let his thoughts of John and all the things he wanted to know about him, to do to him, fill his mind. He imagined the possibilities of John’s reaction to a light bite at the nape of his neck. Before long he was groaning John’s name and coming into his hand with a shudder.

After a few minutes, Sherlock rose from the sofa in order to clean himself up and change clothes. Once tidy, he returned to the sitting room to think over the case.

Instead, he wondered what it would sound like when John was moaning his name.

 

#

 

John wasn’t sure if he should head straight back to the flat or go grab a few pints first. Sherlock had seemed irritated the night before and John predicted he was angry with John’s timing. He had no doubt the detective was interested, or that he’d been enjoying John’s indulgence before Lestrade interrupted. John was concerned that Sherlock would prefer it if they didn’t allow physical desires to interrupt the process of solving the case.

The doctor came to the conclusion it would be best to return to the flat now while he was sober and he could escape to the pub if it turned into an argument.

When he entered the flat, Sherlock was seated in his chair, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, palms glued together in front of his lips, scowling. His sleeve was rolled up, revealing three nicotine patches on his arm.

“Sherlock?”

The detective didn’t answer, or even seem to acknowledge he was there.

“Did something happen with the case?” asked John, “Sherlock?”

The detective came to life all at once, leaping from his chair and standing in front of John in just a few short strides. “Truth or Dare?” he asked with an expression as serious as someone might have if they were asking, “Is it cancerous?”

“Er…what?”

“It’s a game,” explained Sherlock, “Children play it to learn more about each other and presumably gain blackmail on one another through embarrassing dares.”

“And why are we playing it?”

“Because you have too many secrets.”

“I, uh, do I?” John asked, tilting his head and giving Sherlock a rather confused look. How on Earth had Sherlock come to the conclusion _this_ was the best way to get John talking?

“Yes. For example, you and Beatrice both confer that you are confidantes, suggesting some shared secret between you. Mycroft eluded to a year of military time that he still can’t find records of. I’ve never seen your scar. I’ve never seen you naked, or tasted your skin, or heard you moan, or what happens if I were to bite the back of your neck, or—“

Sherlock must have finally noticed how flush John was. He’d begun to blush when Sherlock had mentioned seeing him naked, but as the list continued the blood had begun to rush from his face to other areas of his body.

John inhaled and tried to get his brain moving again, “Right,” he said, “Well, I can explain about me and Beatrice, though it might take a little while, and the year of military service that Mycroft can’t get ahold of is…well, confidential for a reason. As for the rest of it,” John looked up at Sherlock who was looking on with anticipation, “I suppose you’ll learn all that in due course.”

John couldn’t help but notice the way Sherlock’s pulse picked up, the way his pupils dilated. John turned away, running a hand through his hair and exhaling before reaching to pull off his jacket. He looked back at Sherlock, “How much progress have you made on the case?”

Sherlock scowled at him again.

“Distracted?”

“It’s your fault,” Sherlock said, beginning to sulk.

“And you can’t just ask me about my past, or ask me to show you these things, or just read the file because...?”

Sherlock’s response was almost inaudible, as if he’d realized he’d been foolish or thought John would call him childish, “Seemed too easy?”

John chuckled, stepping back into the space in front of Sherlock and grabbing the detective by the hips and leaning up for a quick, soft kiss on the lips. “I’ve got a deal for you,” said John, “just hear me out, and if you don’t like it, then we’ll forget all about it.”

“I’m listening,” Sherlock answered, reaching out to wrap his arms loosely around John’s waist. 

“Based on your list, you basically have three things you want to know about me. The first, is what I was doing with Beatrice while you were away; the second, what Mycroft can’t get records of; and third, what I’m like in bed.”

“Accurate,” Sherlock confirmed.

“However,” continued John, “you also need to focus on the case and I’m proving something of a distraction to The Work.”

“Dreadfully accurate.”

John smiled, “And we’re only a day or so into this so it would probably be for the better if we didn’t just tear off each other’s clothes and end up in a heap of failure on the floor.”

Sherlock scoffed, “We’ve been courting for years, John.”

John gave him a fake scowl, but continued, “I can tell you right now that I won’t be able to divulge anything about that missing year. As far as the secret between Beatrice and I, I recommend a game of Twenty Questions instead of Truth or Dare.”

Sherlock thought about that, “Would I have multiple days to prepare questions and consider your answers?”

“Take as long as you need.”

“And, seeing you in bed?”

John looked up at Sherlock’s hungry eyes and smiled, leaning in for another kiss, this one much slower. When he pulled away he looked Sherlock in the eyes and issued a challenge, “You solve the case, and you can explore and experiment with any part of me you like.”

Sherlock was silent, but John noted the way he swallowed, the way his eyes lit up even more, the way his jaw slackened and his mouth hung slightly open, “That’s a brave offer,” said Sherlock.

John kissed him one more time, “I trust you,” he said before pulling out of Sherlock’s arms and heading to the kitchen to turn on the kettle and settle into his normal after-work routine.

The detective stood where John left him, visibly thinking. Finally Sherlock answered, “I think your proposed arrangement is acceptable. I’ll have the case solved by tomorrow.”

“Eager are we?” John laughed.

Sherlock smiled, but it didn’t hide his hungry eyes, “Very much so.”

 

#

 

John somehow managed to get Sherlock to eat a bit of dinner from his plate, despite the fact that after their agreement Sherlock had leapt into The Work and focused on nothing else. It had been a quiet evening of Sherlock busily tapping away at his laptop and John watching crap telly.

When he was finally ready for bed, John walked to Sherlock and placed a kiss on the top of the detective’s head. “Good night,” he said, “try to get some rest too.”

Sherlock turned to face him, “I’ve got my first two questions.”

“Alright.”

“Was it legal?”

John thought about it, “Technically, yes.”

“Was it dangerous?”

“Not to me.”

Sherlock nodded and returned to his laptop, “Good night, John.”


	8. Mischief

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A big thank you for those who have given kudos and comments. I appreciate how supportive you've all been, it truly is my main motivation to continue writing and to fight off writer's block!
> 
> This chapter is rather dialogue heavy, so it has a much shorter word count. Hopefully quality of conversation will make up for it. :)

When John shuffled into the kitchen the next morning for breakfast, he found Sherlock sitting in the kitchen focused on his phone. The detective seemed somewhat immersed in a conversation via text, but John ventured a “Good morning,” anyway.

The detective merely hummed in response.

“How’s the case?” John asked, preparing toast for breakfast.

“I’m procuring some evidence as we speak.”

John raised an eyebrow at him, “That so?”

“Stop distracting me, John. I’m in the middle of a drug trade.”

John took in a deep breath, “Why?”

Sherlock made a frustrated noise, “ _Evidence._ ”

“Right,” said John with a slight nod. The doctor scowled down at the toaster, waiting for his meager breakfast. When it finally flung forward he grabbed it and decided it was best just to eat it dry, as he was already running late. “Call me,” John said, leaving the kitchen, “if you get arrested.”

Again, the detective hummed in response.

John kneeled down to put on his shoes and then stood to reach for his jacket and was somewhat startled to find the detective had moved to stand aside him. “You’re like a bloody cat,” said John.

Sherlock waved the comment away with a flutter of his hand, “Singular event or a series of occasions?”

John cocked his eyebrow at him.

“Question three.”

“Ah,” said John. He tilted his head to think over his answer before saying, “An ongoing singular event.”

Sherlock scowled at him, but John chuckled, leaning up to plant a kiss on Sherlock, and grabbed his jacket. “That’s never going to get old,” he said, pulling his jacket on.

“Your infuriatingly consistent ability to confuse me?”

“Kissing you,” answered John on his way out of the flat.

 

#

 

The doctor spent a good deal of his day checking his phone at available opportunities. He kept expecting a text from Lestrade telling him to come bail Sherlock out of jail. Though he supposed it was unlikely, as according to the DI, Sherlock’s only drug charges had been when he’d been sent to the hospital for nearly overdosing. The thought soured his stomach and made him tighten his shoulders, he hated the mental image of Sherlock in that place in his life.

What he did receive were several more questions concerning his activities with Beatrice. The first two came fairly early in the day.

9:08 AM

Sexual in nature? –SH

-Not implicitly

But sex was involved? –SH

-Jealous?

Answer the question. –SH

-The first time was a drunken accident, the next five times were involved.

How does one accidentally have sex?-SH

-That counts as question.

-A naked woman slips and falls onto an excited naked man.

Don’t be ridiculous, John. –SH

-American Showtime and a lot of alcohol

-Question 7?

Sherlock didn’t respond right away. By the time his next question came in John was beginning to wonder if Sherlock had been upset by his answers.

12:32 PM

Why you?-SH

-Going to have to be a little clearer

Why did you, specifically, need to continue to act as her sexual partner? –SH

John chuckled when he read it, he could hear the irritated tone of Sherlock’s voice behind the little black letters on his screen.

-I suppose it didn’t have to be me, but it was more fun and less awkward than the alternatives.

Why continue the sex? -SH

-Chemistry

-You’re going to waste all 20 questions asking about my sex life

They’re relevant questions. –SH

-And 'the sex'? Really?

Once more, Sherlock stopped responding, but the doctor supposed it was for the better as he had patients to tend to. Just before his shift was up, he received yet another text from the detective.

4:46 PM

At the morgue. –SH

-I’ll be there just as soon as my shift ends.

Her chemistry? -SH

-What?

Beatrice’s chemistry? –SH

-Yes

John, did you have sex for science? –SH

-Experimental sex is my favorite kind of sex

I’m suddenly interested in a new field of research. –SH

John did not respond, but did quickly finish his paper work for the day and rush out the door to St. Bart’s. 

 

#

 

The doctor popped his head into the morgue to find Molly still at work, “Is he still around?”

She looked up from the body on the table and smiled at him, “He’s in the lab. Been busy all afternoon.”

“Good mood?”

“Bit off and on,” she said.

John smiled, “Thanks.”

“No problem,” she smiled again and returned to her work.

John exited the morgue and entered the lab across the hall. Sherlock was seated on a lab stool, stooped over a microscope and had samples spread across the table.

“Been busy?” asked John.

“I bought drugs!” said Sherlock, looking up to smile broadly at John.

The doctor sighed, “You didn’t take them, did you?”

Sherlock waved him away, relaxing back into his normal facial expressions, “Don’t be tedious.”

John walked over to stand next to him and look over the samples on the table, “Something new on the market then?”

“It’s remarkable,” said Sherlock, “It’s beautifully crafted.”

“What’s it do?”

“I’m not entirely certain, you could take one and tell me after.”

John just glared at him.

“According to the network, it ‘makes them happy and dreamy and there’s almost no hangover’.”

“Meaning?”

“It causes high release of either dopamine or serotonin, induces hallucination, and leaves the same foggy haze as an anti-depressant or sleeping pill.”

“That’s-“

“Impressive and professionally crafted.”

“So, someone is kidnapping chemists to create this drug?”

“Pharmaceutical chemists.”

“And Thomas Buckley?” asked John.

“He was attempting to escape, or get information out.”

“Makes sense.”

“But where are they making it?” said Sherlock, “They’d need a clean lab facility.”

“You seem to be running a decent lab in our kitchen,” John said, ignoring Sherlock’s sneer at his sarcasm. “What are they calling them?

“Lunar Lullabies.”

John laughed, “That’s horrible.”

“Agreed.”

“Have you told Lestrade?”

“Gave him a sample.”

“Uh, you didn’t—‘

“Don’t be stupid John, I didn’t administer it to him.”

“Right, good.”

Sherlock stooped back over the microscope, leaving John to sit idly. John leaned against the counter top of the lab, waiting for Sherlock to have his eureka moment, trying not to appear too horribly bored. His mind wandered back to Sherlock’s previous questions, before the game had begun. He wanted to know what John was like naked, and now he was working to solve a case just so he could unwrap the doctor like a present.

John smiled, a bit of mischief running through his mind. Sherlock had agreed to the terms, he could have John any way he wanted once the case was solved. They hadn’t said anything about what John was allowed to do. Though Molly was close by, he probably couldn’t do much here at the lab but he could at least get the detective’s brain running.

Quietly, John slipped into the space behind Sherlock and placed his hands on the detective’s hips. Sherlock’s entire being seemed to tense up at the touch and John knew he wasn’t really looking at the microscope anymore. He leaned in, letting his chest press against Sherlock’s warm back and let his thumbs ghost in circles over Sherlock’s lower back.

“John,” Sherlock said, nearly whispering, “We agreed—“

“We agreed that you can do whatever you like to me when the case is through, never said anything about what I get to do,” John answered in a hushed, yet forceful voice, “and I,” he kissed the back of Sherlock’s neck, causing the detective’s body to relax, “have been wondering,” he gave a short lick along the spine, that sent a shudder through the rest of the detective, “just what makes you so curious,” he bit softly at the base of Sherlock’s neck, coaxing out a moan from the detective, “about this spot.”

John moved his right hand to Sherlock’s thigh, expertly brushing along the inner leg and further exciting the detective with the hint of a touch along his length, while his left traveled up Sherlock’s chest, brushing each finger over the nipple before taking a firm grasp at the shoulder. Sherlock’s breath shuddered at the touch and he arched back into John when the captain licked a broad stripe up Sherlock’s neck, along his spine.

The captain released Sherlock, stepping away from him, “Sorry, must be distracting you, I’ll go grab us a cuppa.” John walked to the door, subtly adjusting himself, and left in search of coffee, leaving the detective breathing heavily and grasping at the lab table with white knuckles.


	9. Missing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Three more chapters to go!

Sherlock could kill John. 

The deranged captain was obviously taking some maniacal joy out of working him up and then behaving as if nothing had happened. One minute he was licking Sherlock’s neck and the next he was setting a cup of coffee by him with that _stupid_ smile. After delivering coffee, John had kept his hands to himself while waiting for Sherlock to finish his work at the lab, though it took even longer than it should have because Sherlock’s mind kept focusing on the doctor’s presence instead of on The Work.

They’d stopped at Angelo’s so John could eat. John had spent the entirety of the dining experience making every innuendo he could possibly think of, before licking sauce of his thumb in an obscene manner and then laughing at him when Sherlock began to blush. Sherlock thought he’d gain some reprieve when John said he was going to take a shower and go to bed. The detective had not suspected that John would take a shower and then walk about the sitting area in nothing but his loosely tied terry cloth robe before _finally_ going to bed.

By the time John was asleep in bed, Sherlock thought he might kill the man or at least pin him to the wall until he was moaning Sherlock’s name. Then he could leave him all hot and bothered while Sherlock focused on The Work. 

Sherlock shook his head, attempting to clear the image away like his mind was some kind of etch-o-sketch. The work needed to come first.

He groaned with irritation.

He looked over the results of his lab work from the day. The chemists would need a specific set of conditions for work that clean, it couldn’t possibly be done in someone’s basement. But where were there unmonitored, secure, empty, pharmaceutical grade laboratories in London?

Sherlock laid out a map of the city and began looking for possibilities. 

 

#

 

Apparently London had seventeen unmonitored, secure, empty, pharmaceutical grade laboratories. After spending several hours pouring over the map of London, Sherlock began attempting to narrow down likely candidates but still found himself with eleven options. He simply didn’t have enough information on the culprit, though he suspected they were wealthy and well-connected. Likely an already established drug lord, though not normally a London player, trying to create something new to open up a world market for his new merchandise.

By the time Sherlock was putting on his coat and scarf to go and inspect the locations, John was already up for the day. The doctor took one look at the map and sternly informed Sherlock, “Don’t go running into any of those without me. It’s Friday, so I’ve got a short shift, I’ll come find you as soon as I’m off.”

“Just a bit of surveillance, John.”

“I’ve heard that before,” John mumbled, turning on the kettle. 

Sherlock wandered into the kitchen, closer to John, before he even realized he was travelling, “They’ll be producing during the day, attempting to make the operation appear like a normal business. It’ll be easier to break in at night anyway.”

“Or we could call Lestrade and let the Yard take care of it.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, “Naturally, but we will need to ensure that our client's research hasn’t fallen into their hands.”

John sighed, “Just don’t do anything stupid.”

“Honestly John,” Sherlock said, looking down at the doctor in front of him who had turned to lean against the kitchen worktop, “I never do anything stupid.”

John grabbed him by the scarf and pulled him down for one of his short but endearing kisses, and then looked the detective in the eyes, “I love you, but you do bloody stupid things.”

“Really?”

“All the time, like when you—“

“Not that, John.”

“What? Do I really love you?”

Sherlock nodded.

“Obvious,” said John with a smile.

Sherlock scowled at him, “Then why wait all this time?”

John laughed, “Because you deserve better than me, and Halloween candy and such.”

If only to prove it possible, Sherlock deepened his scowl.

The kettle, as if perfectly timed, finished at that moment and John went about making two cups of tea. He shoved one into Sherlock’s hand along with a demand that Sherlock eating something before he started staking out abandoned labs, and then was gone for work within a few short minutes.

Sherlock spent the time waiting on the toaster contemplating how John could be both so domesticated and deadly at the same time, and how John could possibly think Sherlock could find someone better than him, or that John wouldn’t be worthy of Sherlock. For a surgeon, the man could be incredibly thick sometimes. 

Did he consider Sherlock to be Halloween candy?

Again, the detective shook his head, trying to temporarily clear away the scattered thoughts of John. He took a bite of the toast as soon as he pulled it from the toaster and then left the slightly nibbled piece on a plate on the counter.

Finally, he went to work. 

The first three locations were painfully empty of anything of interest, though he found several members of the Homeless Network at the fourth and was able to gather some additional intel concerning point of sales for the new drug. The fifth and seventh only introduced him to several new squatters and the sixth, eighth, and ninth to drug dens, though none were of the variety he was currently looking for.

By the time he reached the tenth, John’s shift had ended and the doctor was coming to meet him. John accompanied him to the eleventh facility which had apparently burned down the night before, but didn’t contain evidence of anything more than teenaged arson. Just for the sake of being thorough, Sherlock dragged John to the other five locations but the results weren’t much better. 

He kicked an empty beer can between two of the lab tables in the chemistry room of an old, abandoned private school. John pulled himself up to sit at on one of the worktops, his feet dangling below him, “Are you sure that five professional chemists couldn’t make this in a basement or apartment kitchen?”

“Not anymore.”

“What about Prendergast?”

“What about her?”

“She was trying to get away, right?”

“Yes, but there are no leads, no evidence of whom she might have been trying to get away from. I presume it was our kidnapping drug lord, but that’s about it.”

“Could call-“

“Shut up, John.”

“Alright,” sighed the doctor. 

John was right, he’d have no luck finding the culprits or the kidnapped chemists without a lead on who had done the kidnapping. He had to have missed something at Prendergast’s storage unit. Sherlock turned to leave, coat whirling behind him, and he could hear John close behind, “I need to go back to the storage unit.”

“Alright,” said John.

“You go back to the flat.”

John halted behind him, “Why?”

Sherlock turned to look at him, “Because you’ve been horribly distracting.”

“Oh for the love of—“ John started, “Look, I promise to stop teasing you and I won’t snog you in the damn storage unit, now let’s go.”

Sherlock couldn’t decide if he was glad or disappointed, but it would help to have a second set of eyes and he did prefer for John to be nearby, “Fine.”

They spent the remainder of their Friday evening digging through boxes and files and snooping through the contents of a laptop. Near midnight, John chuckled, “I can’t believe you went the whole day without asking me another question about Beatrice.”

Sherlock blinked and looked at John, “Where is Beatrice?”

“What?”

“Beatrice, where is she?”


	10. Pretend

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tomorrow we raid the the drug lab! :)
> 
> Two more chapters to go!
> 
> Update 7/4/14: I kinda sorta forgot today is Independence Day (I'm a bad American), so updates will come soon but not today!

“What do you mean, where is Beatrice, she’s…” John thought back to the last time he’d heard from her, “Shit!”

“I saw her Wednesday morning, leaving the flat for work,” said Sherlock.

“Right,” John pulled out his mobile and looked through his texts, “She sent me a text at 1:33 PM Wednesday asking…that’s not important.”

“It could be, what did she ask?”

“What your arse would look like in skinny jeans.”

Sherlock grimaced, “I thought she just did that to me.”

“She’s a regular cupid,” said John, “nothing after that though.” He dialed her number and lifted the phone to his ear, one, two, three rings, “Voicemail.”

“If it rang it still has battery, we can track it,” said Sherlock, texting both Mycroft and Lestrade, “we can at least find out where she was picked up.”

Two irritated responses came in a few minutes later, both indicating that the phone was at a pub six blocks from the Shaman Pharmaceuticals lab that Beatrice worked in. They moved quickly.

The pub was such a lazy, tired place that Sherlock found it somewhat hard to believe Beatrice of all people would find herself in it. It was near closing, but there was little evidence to suggest the pub had seen many more patrons that night than what was already present. John walked straight up to the bar, nearly in a panic, “Hi, I’m looking for a phone that might have been left here a couple nights ago. Pink case, with little purple skulls, it’s an older model iPhone.”

The bartender, who sounded like she might smoke a dozen packs of cigarettes a day, coughed at him, “Sure thing, though it seems a bit feminine for you.”

John smiled, “It belongs to a friend, I think she might be in trouble.”

“Pretty thing?” said the bartender, reaching behind the bar to retrieve the phone, “American?”

“That’s her,” said John, “Did you happen to see if she left with anyone?”

“Sure did,” she coughed again, “Two men, big guys. They sat down at her table, talked to her for a little while, then she left with them. Left her phone in her seat. I didn’t think anything was wrong, she seemed calm, smiling even.”

Sherlock cut in, “Do you have surveillance?”

The bartender laughed at him, “We’ve got cameras, but they aren’t exactly filming.”

“Mycroft?” asked John, turning to look at the detective.

“I’ll text him,” said Sherlock, more to appease John’s worry than anything else, “Let me see her phone.”

John handed it over, “The passcode is 5212.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at him and punched in the digits, unlocking the phone.

“It was an important date.”

Sherlock decided it was best to focus on the phone, it was by far the best lead he’d gotten all week. More importantly, Beatrice had left it behind intentionally. There had to be something on it. 

Sherlock laughed, earning him a scowl from John, “She took a picture.”

“What?”

The detective turned the phone around, there was a picture of two men entering the pub. Both were tall, athletic build, black jackets and jeans. There was nothing distinct about them aside from the fact they were both ‘big guys’. 

“It’s got a time stamp,” said Sherlock, “Wednesday at 10:17.”

“CCTV?”

“We should be able to find them, figure out where they took her.”

 

#

 

John was still sometimes baffled by what Sherlock’s resources could get them access to in the middle of night. It didn’t take much time at all to settle in at the Yard and start watching the footage from the area. Before long they had the license plate number of sleek black car that the three of them had piled into. 

“I’m surprised she let them take her so easily,” said Sherlock, “Beatrice isn't the damsel in distress type.”

“To be honest,” answered John, “that worries me too. Bea worked with Prendergast when she was doing her internship, she mentioned it a couple weeks back.”

“You think she went willingly—“

“To get closer to Prendergast and her captors?”

“I see," said Sherlock, “Seems awfully sentimental for a psychopath.”

“Sentiment has nothing to do with it,” said John, “Bea believes in the trade system. You do her a favor—“

“And she’ll do one for you.”

“Right. Prendergast helped her get the job in Houston, gave her a pretty nice recommendation letter and made a few phone calls apparently.”

“So Beatrice owes Prendergast a favor of sorts.”

“I imagine that’s how Bea sees it.”

“So,” said Sherlock, still monitoring the route of the car, “What does she owe you?”

“Is that question ten?”

“Question nine, I’m not counting the accidental sex one.”

“It counted,” said John, “and Bea thinks she owes me a whole lot of favors.”

“You disagree?”

“I don’t think I’ve done all that much for her.”

“What happened on May 2, 2012?”

“I met her.”

Sherlock looked away from the screens just long enough to take an observant glance at John.

“I was going to visit Mrs. Hudson, talk to her about moving back in actually. On the way I saw a mugging and intervened.”

“Beatrice was the one being mugged?”

John laughed, “She’s strong but she’s small, there were two of them and they were both armed. She may have not have needed my help but, well, you know me.”

Sherlock hummed in response.

“I moved back in a couple weeks later,” said John. 

“She still hasn’t paid back the favor?”

“According to her.”

“You saved her life, it is a rather big favor,” said Sherlock, speeding the video through the car’s route, “and honestly, how many opportunities are there to save John Watson?”

“Well,” said John, turning his face so that he wasn’t looking at the detective, “Like I said, I don’t agree with her. I was useless when I met her.”

“She saved your life without noticing?” Sherlock said, a hint of amusement in his voice.

John was silent for a minute. When he finally answered, it was with a quiet, defeated voice, “John Watson’s biggest threat has always been John Watson.”

Sherlock froze. John could see the way his shoulders had tightened, jaw clenched, fingers curled in, but he didn’t speak. For once at a loss for words. 

The car in the video finally came to a stop in front of an old warehouse near the Thames, nearly on the complete opposite side of London from the pub where they’d picked up Beatrice. John cleared his throat, “We should get going, you said it would be easier to break in at night.”

“A taxi will get us close the fastest,” said Sherlock, “we’ll alert the Yard to the location when we’re closer.”

“Bea will probably already know if they’ve got anything from her lab.”

“That does seem highly likely,” said Sherlock, pretending like everything was alright, because it was always easier to pretend when John was pretending too.


	11. Actress

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote three different endings for this before deciding this seemed most like Beatrice's character. Enjoy!

By the time they arrived at the old warehouse, it was nearly one in the morning. They exited the taxi, that Sherlock had somehow managed to hail in the middle of the night, a block away from the actual site. The street where the taxi let them off was lined with seedy bars and clubs full of people who were either buying or selling anything a person could want to make them forget their current situation. The pair moved away from the street through an alleyway to get closer to their actual target, but once they got a view John wondered if they’d gotten something wrong. There was no activity, no lights, or people moving about, no one monitoring the perimeter, it seemed suspiciously vacant. 

“They couldn’t have moved in the past two days, could they?” asked John.

“No,” said Sherlock firmly, “They probably just moved into this facility, another move would hurt their production even further.” The detective moved onto the warehouse lot, it wasn’t difficult to move in closer in the middle of the night in a poorly lit area. He walked to a side door, John close behind.

“Horrid security,” said Sherlock, “it isn’t even locked.”

“Something isn’t right,” said John.

“Obvious.”

“I don’t think we should go in.”

Sherlock turned around to scowl at him, “You can’t be serious.”

“It’s just—“ John shook his head, “Something isn’t right. Call it instinct, I don’t know, but—“

“Text Lestrade,” said Sherlock, “we’ll have back up on the way.”

John nodded curtly and took out his mobile, texting the DI as quickly as he could with their location. Sherlock, meanwhile, opened the old, rusting door which creaked loudly as he pulled it forward. John looked around, admittedly nervous. 

“Body,” said Sherlock, “Come take a look, John.”

The captain clenched his jaw and stepped into the warehouse behind Sherlock to find one of the two men that Beatrice had left the bar with lying dead on the ground. The doctor kneeled down to take a look, “Bullet to the chest, he’s still warm, this was recent, within the last thirty minutes.”

“Someone has escaped,” said Sherlock.

“Twenty pounds says they live above us.”

Sherlock hummed in response and moved further in to the warehouse, “The lab must be on the second level, this all looks to be docki—“

The explosion cut him off. The flames burst through the ceiling on the other side of the warehouse, shaking the frame of the ancient building and beginning a quick collapse of the structure. John moved quickly, grabbed Sherlock by the back of his coat and pulled him towards the door as fast as possible. The captain and the detective had just made it out of the building when the second explosive went off, starting a chain reaction that broke apart the building and filled the sky with embers and dark smoke with a faint green tinge to it.

“The chemical lab exploded,” said Sherlock.

“We need to find Bea,” said John, still pulling Sherlock away from the building, steering him across the street.

“She’ll have gone back to Baker Street no doubt,” said Sherlock, “You yourself said that she was probably the one who shot the guard.”

“What about the other chemists?” asked John, “Where are they?”

Sherlock scowled at him and then looked back at the building, “Dead.”

“Right,” said John, “Sherlock, what were Bea and I doing while you were away.”

“Researching the chemistry of her brain, likely specific to serotonin, dopamine, and oxytocin. Possibly Endorphins, what does that have to—oh.”

“We need to find Bea,” repeated John.

Sherlock pulled his mobile from his pocket and texted Lestrade that there was a fire to control and began running back down the alleyway to the busier street where the taxi had let them off. If Bea was trying to blend in, there were numerous pubs on that street, and plenty of taxis. 

“Tell me more about the research,” said Sherlock, “What makes you so certain that was Beatrice’s handiwork?”

“Bea is somewhat obsessed with finding a workable treatment for her condition, not because she wants to treat it, but because she knows there is a lot of money to be made. We were looking at finding ways to increase her levels of 5HTTLPR and MAOA-LPR – the chemicals that transport and break down serotonin.”

They emerged onto the street and continued walking down the pavement, not necessarily headed to a particular location, “You think Beatrice might have allowed herself to be taken, stolen the research that helped create the Lunar Lullaby, and then killed everyone else in the building? Planned it all out?”

“I think she allowed herself to be taken with the intention of helping Prendergast,” said John, “but then she saw their research or something in the research, saw the drug, and changed her plans. Less competition if everyone is dead.”

“You think that little of her?”

John glance up at him, “I know her well enough to know that Beatrice only looks after Beatrice, any favor she thinks she owes me will be meaningless if I get between her and what she wants. She is dangerous, Sherlock.”

“Has she killed someone before?”

“I never asked,” said John.

“Reckless,” said Sherlock, in a harsh tone meant to chastise John.

“You can tell me I’m an idiot later,” said John, “right now we need to worry about finding Bea.”

“You know her best, where do you think she’d have gone?”

“It depends on whether or not she wants people to think she’s dead or alive.”

“Dead, she set the bombs to prevent anyone from knowing that everyone inside was likely already dead when it went off.”

“Then she didn’t go to Baker Street, or work, or to any location she’d be recognized in.”

“She’s still here then,” said Sherlock. “Blending into the crowd of one of these bars or clubs, finding the right person to help her disappear.”

“There are at least a dozen bars here, Sherlock,” said John, as they passed another alleyway entrance, “how are we supposed to know which one?”

“We just need to find out whose selling papers,” said Sherlock, “We can find out that much with just a few questions.”

Both of their mobiles chirped simultaneously. John sighed through a clenched jaw as he reached into his pocket. It was from Lestrade, demanding they get to the crime scene immediately, there was a survivor. They both looked up from their phones to look each other in the eye and then ran down the alleyway back to the burning warehouse. 

Fire engines had arrived at the scene and were already being put to use to extinguish the flames. Lestrade was speaking to a sobbing witness who’d been seated in the back on an ambulance, a blanket wrapped around one shoulder. Medics were tending to her arm and leg, which were scorched. Her clothing was dirty, torn, and singed. Her make-up was a mess, as if she’d been crying and rubbing at it for days. Her hair was in disarray and her shoes were missing. Lestrade was clearly struggling to keep her calm, to get her explanation of events.

Sherlock and John gaped at Beatrice’s performance.

Lestrade glanced away from her just long enough to spot the two of them and indicated to Sgt. Donavon to take over speaking to the witness. The DI walked over to John and Sherlock, “I can’t believe that girl made it out of there, she’s your neighbor, right?”

“What’s her story?” asked Sherlock.

“Says she was picked up on Wednesday, that they threatened her and her flat-mates,” the DI said, making eye contact with the both of them, “apparently her kidnappers were forcing the chemists to develop that street drug you provided a sample of. She says one of the chemists, Damien Smithson was actually in on it but he and another guy got into an argument. Tonight, she saw Damien mixing some dangerous chemicals, convinced the other two hostages to make a run for it, but they got caught up in the explosion that Damien set off.”

“So there are no other witnesses?” asked John.

“No,” confirmed the DI, “Did either of you see her when you first arrived?”

“No,” said Sherlock, “and judging by the condition of the fire and the building, there is no evidence to refute her story.”

Lestrade looked from one to the other, “Refute her story? Look at her, the girls a mess! She’s got burns down her arm and leg but she’s – she’s damn lucky to have gotten out.”

“If the other two hostages were caught up in the explosion, why does she only have minor burns?” asked Sherlock.

 

“She says she’d moved to the bottom of the staircase to look for guards, the other two were still at the top of the staircase.”

“Which door did she come out of?” asked Sherlock.

“Back side of the building,” said Lestrade.

John pinched the bridge of his nose, “She’s going to get away with it, isn’t she?”

“Most likely,” said Sherlock.

“Get away with what? Are you suggesting _she_ did this?” Lestrade asked, gesturing behind him vaguely. 

“Well,” said John, “she—“

“ _You_ brought us the footage of her kidnapping,” said Lestrade, “Is she a dealer? Is she part of the drug scheme? She wasn’t even in the country when this started! Does she have connections to the other people?”

“No,” said Sherlock.

“Then what’s her motive?” asked Lestrade.

“The research,” said John.

Lestrade gave them a confused look, “I need evidence to arrest someone, is there any evidence indicating what she’s told me isn’t true?”

Sherlock gave a defeated sigh, “Did she have any papers, a USB, anything like that on her?”

“I’ll check,” said Lestrade, “And if there is?”

“If she’s got the research that should be enough evidence for—“

“For what?”

Sherlock watched as Sgt. Donavon was shooed away and Beatrice was placed in the back of the ambulance. There was no evidence. No witnesses. Just her story. “John,” he asked, “How’s her memory?”

“Good.”

“Was she ever officially diagnosed?”

“No.”

“Diagnosed with what?” asked Lestrade.

“Psychopathy,” answered Sherlock.

Lestrade cocked an eyebrow at him, “The crying, screaming girl who let herself be kidnapped because her flat-mates were being threatened, who defended _you_ to Donavon, who helped John while you were pretending to be dead is the psychopath?”

“I suppose you need us to fill out paperwork?” said Sherlock.

“You can do it in the morning,” said Lestrade, “and look, I’ve never known you to be wrong Sherlock. If you think she’s guilty, I believe you, but I need evidence, something solid to go on.”

“There isn’t any,” said Sherlock, “It was an impulsive crime and all the evidence is burning away as we speak.”

Lestrade sighed, “Well if you find something bring it to me.” He shook his head, opened his mouth to say something, but decided against it and instead returned to Sgt. Donavon as the ambulance drove away.

“Think she’ll come back to Baker Street?” asked John.

“It’s Saturday,” said Sherlock.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The case will officially come to a close in the next chapter, which means John has some promises to keep. Do you guys think Beatrice should get away squeaky clean or will the duo catch her?


	12. Explore

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it, the final chapter of The Tenant. You've reached the smut! (Which is more difficult to write than I gave people credit for. Hopefully I don't suck at it.)
> 
> An enormous thank you to those who have continued to support my writing and provided feedback, it means a great deal to me. Also, I am working on developing a final story line for this series in which we'd learn about that missing year in John's records. 
> 
> On a final note, I'll be going through and doing some grammar/continuity editing over the next few days. No major changes should occur, but it should improve the quality of reading. :)

“It is possible that her story has some truth to it,” said Sherlock, watching the fire more than John as they waited for a taxi.

John sighed.

“You seemed certain she was alive before there was any evidence of it, even knew something was wrong with the building. What do you know that I don’t?”

“She set her house on fire when she was little,” said John.

“I’m assuming she told you that in confidence,” said Sherlock.

“You’re right, I could be wrong,” said John, “I didn’t know the building was going to explode, it just didn’t feel right going in. Just instinct.”

“But the fire made you think of Beatrice.”

“Yeah.”

The taxi pulled up in front of them, Sherlock opened the door and allowed John to slide in first, “You go back to Baker Street and get some sleep, I’m going to give Lestrade a statement.”

“But—“

“Beatrice will be at the hospital for at least a few more hours and I’m too frustrated with how this all turned out to—you need rest.”

John sighed again, “Call if you need me.”

“Certainly,” Sherlock said with a smile, slamming the door shut and stepping back on the pavement. 

“Baker Street?” asked the cabbie.

“Yeah,” said John, “No, wait. St. Bart’s hospital.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah,”

 

#

 

Beatrice was asleep in the hospital bed by the time John arrived. He wasn’t sure if it spoke of good or bad fortune that the night shift of the hospital was familiar enough with him that they didn’t put up much of an argument on his being there. He took the chart from the end of the bed and read through it.

Fractured wrist, deep bruising along both wrists and upper left arm, mild concussion, sprained ankle, dehydration, mostly mild burns along right arm and leg – some third degree burns on right shoulder. That didn’t just tell a story of avoiding an explosion, there had been some form of struggle.

_Must be hard to be a psychopath when you’re that tiny._

John chuckled at the thought, exhaustion starting to seep into his bones and settle behind his eyes. He slumped into the uncomfortable guest chair and looked over her injuries. She had some other minor scrapes and bruises along her face, her arm and leg were wrapped for the burn treatment and her other wrist was a in a soft brace.

“You aren’t supposed to laugh at other people’s injuries,” she croaked.

“Didn’t realize you were awake.”

She cracked an eyelid open to confirm her guest, “Didn’t think you’d come by.”

“How much of your story was real?”

She made a soft sound, like a pained laugh, “I’d estimate it at 75%.”

“Fire?”

“I must be developing a pattern.”

“Other chemists?”

She turned her head and willed her eyes open to look at him properly, “They’d all met before.”

“You’re going to have to explain that one to me.”

“At a conference,” she said, “they’d all met before. I told the police that Smithson was in on it, but he wasn’t the only one.”

John thought about it for a moment, “Prendergast had packed a bag.”

“But a packed bag doesn’t look like a kidnapping,” she confirmed.

“Why you?”

“Margie knew I was good at what I did, probably guessed my moral compass didn’t exactly work properly. Buckley had tried to back out so they killed him, well, Smithson killed him-according to Margie.”

“Not sure what to believe.”

“I’d never lie to you, John.”

“Why not?”

She smiled at him, “Because you’re my John.”

He gave her a tight lipped grin, “I’m not sure if that’s cute or terrifying.”

“Both.”

He nodded and looked up at the ceiling.

“You can link them all,” she said, “at the pharmaceutical conference in Cardiff about ten months back.”

“I’ll let Sherlock know.”

They were quiet for a moment, both looking for answers on the ceiling, but Beatrice broke the silence, “What’s it supposed to feel like?”

“What?”

“Killing someone.”

“I suppose it depends on why you killed them.”

“They were bad people, I guess. Dangerous.”

“Tinge of guilt, bit of service,” said John, “I’ve gone and forgotten what it felt like to kill someone for the first time.”

“How many people?” she asked, “How many have you killed?”

John didn’t answer right away, instead searching the ceiling for a number, “I’ve lost count.”

“Do you ever feel more than a tinge of guilt?”

“Ihsan Afzal. Gwen Chevalier. Malik Al-Basri. Hakim Al-Basri.”

“Who are they?”

“Those are the people I’ve murdered,” said John, “They’re the ones that make me feel guilty.”

“Everyone else?”

“Bad people, dangerous,” he said, “Or nearly dead already, out of my hands.”

Once again, silence crept back into the room, save for the beeps and humming of machinery. Beatrice closed her eyes, “I think I’ll go back to Houston when I’m recovered.”

John smiled, “Should try Hollywood, you’re quite the actress.”

When she didn’t answer, John looked to find her asleep. He left quietly and made his way back to Baker Street. 

His tired feet struggled up the steps to the flat, ready to just give out there and leave him to sleep on the steps. But he willed himself up and forward, pulled by the screeching sound of the violin upstairs. When he entered the flat, Sherlock’s screeching stopped abruptly. The detective turned to examine him.

John looked up, too exhausted to go into detail, “Pharmaceutical conference in Cardiff ten months ago.” With that, he laid down on the sofa, too tired to go up a second flight of stairs, and went to sleep.

 

#

It was nearly two in the afternoon by the time John opened his eyes. The flat was empty, detective and coat missing from 221B. He checked his phone, but found no missed calls or messages.

He stretched out his stiff muscles, scrounged for edible food in their kitchen, took a much needed and refreshing shower, and by the time he’d put on a clean set of clothes he was beginning to feel more like himself. A cup of tea and he’d be ready to deal with just about anything.

John made his was down from his room and entered the sitting room to find Sherlock seated in his armchair and a cup of tea waiting for John next to his own chair. His eyebrows lifted in surprise, “Thank you?”

“Honestly John, will you ever stop thinking I’m trying to poison you?”

“Poison? Yes. Drug? No,” he said, seating himself and taking up the tea.

“That was rather useful information,” said Sherlock, “seems our missing-dead-chemists all knew each other. It would appear Smithson wasn’t the only one who was ‘in on it’.”

John sipped his tea and gave Sherlock a pensive look, “Case closed then?”

“Case closed.”

“Surprised you aren’t in a coma then,” said John, jokingly.

“I had considered giving my transport some rest, but then I recalled a certain…agreement.”

John eyed the detective, his face was flush and he was sitting somewhat awkwardly in his chair, trying too much to look composed.

Setting his tea aside, John looked Sherlock in the eye and repeated himself from their earlier conversation, “You solve the case, and you can explore and experiment with any part of me you like?”

Sherlock swallowed, the pink in his cheeks deepening, eyes dilating. 

“Well,” said John, “I believe that puts me at your mercy.”

Sherlock looked away from John, “It’s not too late to, back out, if…”

John laughed, “Don’t be daft,” he said, standing and walking to stand in front of Sherlock. He took the detective’s hand and guided him to stand, “I’ve been denying myself for far too long, I want this and I want you,” he kissed Sherlock on the mouth, a chaste promise. “Now,” he said, “will this experiment be taking place on the table like your others, or somewhere else?”

Sherlock smiled, “That is certainly tempting, but I think my bed will suffice for now.” He placed his hands on John’s hips and turned him around, “Bed, naked, now.”

John laughed, pulling off his jumper and moving towards the bedroom, “Oh I am going to torture you one of these days.”

“By leaving on your jumper?” asked Sherlock, dropping his suit jacket on the floor.

“Precisely,” answered John, dropping his shirt on the kitchen floor and reaching for the zipper of his jeans.

By the time they reached the hall, Sherlock goading and pushing John towards the bedroom, both men were shirtless and had managed to remove their shoes but their trousers had proven more difficult to abandon while on the move.

Sherlock was making it even more difficult to walk because he’d latched on to John, his arms wrapped around his torso, fingers wandering over the skin, planting small kisses and heady breaths over John’s shoulders that sent shivers through him and made his trousers more uncomfortable by the second. 

Just as they stepped passed the threshold into Sherlock’s room, he placed a small kiss at the base of John’s neck, which caused John’s breath to shudder. They moved in front of the bed, but Sherlock wrapped his right arm tightly around John’s belly, his left hand wrapped around him so that it held John’s left shoulder, and he licked a broad stripe up John’s neck, over the spine, prompting a groan and a tremble in John’s knees that spoke directly to Sherlock’s groin.

Gently, so as not to leave a mark, Sherlock bit down on the nape of John’s neck and marveled at how John came apart. His knees gave out on him, forcing Sherlock to hold most of his weight, the moan he emitted was one of hedonistic need, his neck arched to give Sherlock better access and his hands went to immediate work on removing his jeans and pants. 

Sherlock planted yet another kiss over the spot, adoring the way John’s entire body responded to the simple act, “This,” he said, before giving another, smaller lick to the space, “is going ,” another kiss that sent John’s hips bucking, “to be useful.”

John gasped for breath, “Sherlock Holmes, you fuck me right now or I will kill you.”

Sherlock turned John around for better access to John’s mouth and to better control their fall onto the bed. Being horizontal gave John the access he need to finally completely remove his jeans and pants, leaving him naked under Sherlock, who was straddling him but still in his trousers. Sherlock was leaning forward, John’s hands on his neck, kissing John. His tongue seemed intent on a full investigation of John’s mouth before moving along the soldier’s jaw to further explore his neck. John bucked up, sparking a reaction from Sherlock, “Why the bloody hell do you still have clothes on?” demanded the soldier.

“I’m not sure,” said Sherlock, between his mouth’s exploration of John’s skin, “it’s becoming rather painful.”

John moved so quickly that Sherlock wasn’t entirely sure what he’d done, aside from flip them over so that he was now the one straddling Sherlock, the soldier’s erection pushed against his stomach and John was sucking on Sherlock’s earlobe and trailing kisses down his neck and then his chest and then John’s tongue was on his nipple and Sherlock moaned as the soldier’s expert tongue circled over his erect nipple.

“Pants Sherlock,” John said, moving to the other nipple.

It took some effort on Sherlock’s part to remember how to remove one’s trousers and pants, but he managed it. Once his clothes were _finally_ out of the way, his erection was free to stand at full mast and the feel of it against the smooth skin of John’s arse was enough to pull another moan from the both of them. John moved further down the bed, trailing light licks and kisses down Sherlock’s body until he’d reached his prize and licked up the full length of Sherlock’s erection, the detective’s hands curled in the sheets as his hips bucked forward. 

John placed his hands firmly on Sherlock’s hips and he took the tip of Sherlock’s cock into his mouth, licking over the frenulum. Sherlock reached forward, placing his hand on John’s head, just as John sank down and took as much of Sherlock in as he could. John’s hands kept him from bucking forward but Sherlock could not bite down his moans or the way his head rolled back into the bed, and his breathing certainly wasn’t under control. Then John began sucking, working him with his tongue, putting an expert mouth to use and Sherlock could barely contain himself, his free hand stretched out above him to take a white knuckled hold on the sheets above his head while the hand on John’s head tightened its grip prompting John to take in more of him.

“John,” moaned Sherlock, rewarding him with a hum from John which reverberated through his cock and made it that much harder to speak. “How,” stuttered Sherlock, “am I meant to fuck you, if you make me come now?”

John swallowed around him in response before pulling off and giving Sherlock’s length one more long lick. “Couldn’t help myself,” said John, moving back up to kiss Sherlock, “you’ve no idea how much time I’ve spent wondering what you taste like.” 

“You’re not the only one,” said Sherlock, seizing the opportunity to scoot down so that his head was level with John’s cock. He took him in all at once, and took great pride in the moan he’d gotten from John. He replicated the soldier’s technique, sucking and licking. He reached up and grabbed John’s arse to pull him further down and sink more of him into his mouth, he was satisfied to hear John react with a “Christ, Sherlock, god—“ cut off by moaning.

Sherlock pulled his mouth away, simultaneously pulling what was unmistakably a whimper out of John. “Lube,” he said, “top drawer of the side table.”

John didn’t need to be told more than once, he was already pulling out the brand new bottle Sherlock had bought the day after their original agreement by the time Sherlock had flipped himself over to kneel at the end of the bed. Sherlock took a moment to enjoy his full view of John. He was solid, fit, and covered in scars. The worst were from the bullet wound at his shoulder, though there were others that suggested he’d nearly died more than just what Sherlock knew about. Most were smaller, thin lines and minor burns that had left their stories embedded in the solder’s skin. Some Sherlock knew the story behind, others remained a mystery. Sherlock had to admit he was somewhat surprised by the military tattoo on John’s right shoulder blade. It struck him as an odd tattoo, but now was hardly the time to ask _why_ John had tattooed a jackal’s head with “You’ll meet me in the Great Perhaps” printed in Pashto below it.

The soldier turned around and whatever Sherlock had been thinking was wiped away at the image of John standing there, naked, debauched, painfully erect, leaking pre-come, eyes blown wide, and asking “Where do you want me.”

“Bed,” said Sherlock, nearly urgently, “facing me.”

John obliged happily, handing the bottle over to Sherlock. The detective looked up at him, “There were condoms as well.”

“We’ve both been recently tested,” answered the doctor, “and I’m not really planning on being with anyone else, you?”

Sherlock opened the lube, which was made more difficult by his excitement, but soon he’d squeezed an ample amount to his fingers. He laid down on his side next to John and kissed him, distracting him as he reached down and began working to relax John and prepare him.

“It’s not my first time you know,” said John, whose hands were wandering over Sherlock’s body, occasionally running a teasing hand over Sherlock’s nipples or erection.

“I figured that much out when you informed me you like experimental sex,” Sherlock said, pushing a finger into John and working it in deeper. He rewarded John’s gasp with a deep kiss. Soon, Sherlock added another finger, stretching John more and reaching for his prostate. John’s heavy moan, sudden cursing, and arching back made it obvious when he found it and Sherlock stroked over the spot several more times before adding in a third finger.

The detective watched with aroused curiosity as John came undone under his touch. John turned to look him in the eye, “Fuck me,” he demanded. Sherlock obliged. 

He slowly removed each finger and rolled John over onto his stomach, the doctor was only too willing to draw up his knees to lift himself up for Sherlock. He worked lube over his member and placed a hand on John’s back, steadying him as Sherlock pushed in. 

It was fantastic. John was tight, warm, wrapped around him and already moaning through his heady breathing. Sherlock began to thrust, slowly at first, moving the hand on John’s back to hold onto his hips while reaching his other hand around to pump John at the same pace. John tightened the muscles around him, drawing a deep guttural moan from Sherlock and prompting him to move faster. 

John pushed back into him, pushing him deeper, Sherlock moved faster, both men lost in their feeling of pleasure. Sherlock leaned forward, licking up John’s spine.

“Sherlock,” John moaned, torn between thrusting into the detective’s hand or back onto his cock. Hearing his name seemed to have pushed Sherlock over the edge, his thrust were faster, more erratic and John felt his balls tighten, he was close himself. Sherlock surprised him, the hand that had been on hips wrapped around him, pulling him upward all while continuing to thrust into him and work John with his dexterous violinist’s hands. 

He bit the back of John’s neck.

The doctor came completely undone, coming harder than he’d ever done before with a noise he’d never heard himself make, shooting semen over the bed as his body shook with joy and pleasure. He felt Sherlock push in one last time with a deep groan of his own as he came inside John before slowly working his way out.

They both lay in a panting heap on the bed. John reached over and pulled Sherlock closer to him, giving him a long grateful kiss. “Figures you’d be perfect in bed too,” said John with a smile.

“I received insufficient data,” said Sherlock, “I’ll need to repeat the experiment.”

“Gladly,” laughed John, pushing a curl from Sherlock’s face, “anything for you, love.”


End file.
